


even over vengeance

by clayre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Plot(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Espionage, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Multi, Party Fic, Rated For Violence, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayre/pseuds/clayre
Summary: “Rendon Howe wants to host asalon?”she barks out incredulously, once she’s finished reading the invitation. “Now? With a Landsmeet approaching, and the people of Denerim nearly rioting at his door?” A beat. “And he’s invitedyou?”She shakes her head once, pointing sternly at the offending page. “This? This is a trap.”When an uncertain ally warns the Warden and her companions of an assassination plot, set to take place at an untimely gala, the decision is made to infiltrate the event ─ though not in the Warden's usual fashion.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 35





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> i've ALWAYS wished DA:O had a party quest, like DA2's _Mark of the Assassin_ and DA:I's _Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts.._ that shit is SO fun omg!! the eavesdropping... the fancy dresses... i love it LOL
> 
> this is mostly canon compliant, but it replaces the Rescue the Queen quest with a fun lil party instead :3
> 
> canon-typical violence occurs in later chapters!! it's not going to be particularly gory or gruesome, though, so i've gone with "M"!! if i need to update to E later, though, i for sure will ♥ topical, but tagging fics is actually the bane of my existence. LMAOOO (also i wrote more than i expected so the chapter number may change)

Arl Eamon’s villa is as stately as it is busy; servants seem to rush from room to room, frantic with the arrival of their new guests and their Arl, all of whom had come, admittedly, with little notice. They’d departed as soon as the Arl felt well enough to travel, sending a courier with the news only a day ahead of them.

The halls of his Denerim estate are grand and lush, fit top to bottom in Ferelden colors: swathes of red amongst strips of cured, deep brown leather and positively charming depictions of dogs on the banners and engraved in wood. Long, sturdy rugs line the stone floors, ruddy toned with embroidered cuts of yellow along the edges in bold, strong angles. The fabric is thick and sturdy, and the metal of the Warden’s sabatons against it is muffled and rhythmic.

Her own mabari, Hohaku, is close on her heels, heavy-footed and panting, as she strides down the hall. She walks with purpose, falling back into old habits ─ back straight, chin raised, eyes ahead. She was raised in castles like these, in estates lavish with luxuries, with servants, with expectations to behave like the nobility she is, and she falls right into character once more; a Grey Warden, and Lady Cousland. She’d given the title up, but it still comes to her, a second nature, even when no one is watching.

When she feels her war hound’s nose against her palm, she wonders if he misses Castle Cousland as much as she does; if he misses chasing her and Oren down the halls, barking and howling while she laughs and shouts for Oren to avenge her when she goes down under fur and a wet nose and a sloppy, clumsy tongue.

There’s a bitter taste in her mouth, and her hand strokes over the short fur on her Hohaku’s skull as they walk. He chuffs at her, leaning on her so heavy that she almost topples over, and she laughs and bends to kiss him in gratitude. The whine he lets out is low and drawn, a happy little sound that has her kissing his snout again, before she rights herself and continues down the hallway.

Arl Eamon is waiting for her in his office, and Alistair lingers by as well. He seems less interested in participating in the conversation Eamon wants to have, she notes, though he’d been quiet ever since the Arl’s insistence that he inherit the throne, back in Redcliffe. She imagines it eats at him more than it eats at her, but she’s still found herself ruminating on it; she wouldn’t want to force it on him, but she knows him. He’s a good man. He would be a good king.

“I hope the amenities are to your liking,” Eamon says conversationally. He stands with his arms crossed, and the Warden looks between him and Alistair. The air is tense. “Though if not, I’d be remiss to not remind you that many considered me to be on my deathbed until days ago, and dusting has not been a priority.”

She quirks a smile at him, gives him a short bow. “With all due respect, Arl, your kennels are likely a nicer place to sleep than many of the places we’ve camped as of late.”

“You can say that again,” Alistair cuts in, but there’s a distinct lack of humor in his voice. “I know from experience.” The Warden cringes internally, wishing she could take it back.

“What I mean to say is that everything is fine,” she says, before the Arl can reply. “It’s lovely. I thank you for your hospitality. If there’s anything I can do …”

The Arl looks at Alistair while she speaks, but he addresses her nonetheless. “Of course. All I ask is for your support in the Landsmeet.” He hesitates. “But I might request, if I may, more than a simple vote-of-confidence.”

“You have something in mind, I take it?”

“I do.” Eamon winds his way around his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a slip of paper. From where she’s standing, she can see the Arl of Denerim’s crimson seal on the sheet, and she’s instantly on edge. “This was waiting for me when we arrived,” the Arl was saying, turning the paper over and sliding it across the desk; a clear invitation to help herself. The Warden approaches, poring over the delicate script. “You might understand why this unnerves me.”

“Rendon Howe wants to host a _salon?”_ she barks out incredulously, once she’s finished reading the invitation. “Now? With a Landsmeet approaching, and the people of Denerim nearly rioting at his door?” A beat. “And he’s invited _you?”_ She shakes her head once, pointing sternly at the offending page. “This? This is a trap.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” the Arl says gravely. “But whether or not I attend isn’t my biggest concern.” He leans back, arms crossing over his chest once again, and his gray brows draw low over his eyes. Even under his beard, she can make out the downwards curl of his frown. “I went to the Gnawed Noble, the evening we arrived. I was hoping to meet with our countrymen before the Landsmeet.”

“I suppose you did?” the Warden prompts, when he pauses.

He sighs, long suffering. “I did. They’ve all received invitations to this salon as well.” She knows instantly what that meant, but he surmises his thought anyway. “Whether or not I attend, this puts us at a disadvantage. Howe will have all evening to stoke distrust, to lie, to spread rumors. I don’t doubt that my fellows may come to my defense, to the rightful king’s defense, but I know others who would gladly see us slandered, our position weakened.”

The Warden finds herself looking to Alistair as the Arl speaks. His jaw is tense, and his eyes are boring holes into the books held within the wooden shelves lining the office.

“I may _have_ to attend,” Eamon was saying when she turns her eyes back to him, “if only to not give Howe the opportunity to freely debase our claim to the throne.” He slides the paper back along the desk, inserting it into the drawer again and closing it with an air of finality. “You two will not be welcome, of course,” he says needlessly, “but I would ask that, today while I prepare, you bring me something.” His hands settle heavy on the surface of his desk, and he leans over it, looking at her intently. “Anything. Something to use against Loghain. I can defend Alistair’s birthright from any libel, and I’ll assign an honor guard to accompany me should it cross Howe’s mind to have me slaughtered with a good old fashioned sword, rather than a blood mage, but we should be considering how to persuade our fellow lords and ladies of the court of Alistair’s right to the crown.”

“I don’t imagine you have anything particular in mind, do you?” the Warden asks, a little hopefully.

Eamon smiles at her, the lines of stress around his eyes softening. “I do. The Alienage has been gated off. When I asked, I was told that there was some sort of uprising. I’d imagine that, whatever it is, whatever brought it on, was political. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility to imagine Loghain is involved, or Howe, at the very least. Anything that can incriminate the pair of them as being unfit to rule would be … most fortunate, Maker forgive me for saying so. Howe is Loghain’s biggest supporter; if we could prove he was involved in anything _uncouth,_ it would make Loghain look weak and prone to being manipulated. If you can find anything to implicate Loghain directly, well, that’d be even better.”

“I’ll depart at once, my lord.”

She watches his shoulders ease, just slightly. “Thank you, champion. It is … comforting to have capable allies.” He looks to Alistair, then addresses him. “You’ve done much for your country, Alistair,” he says, and something flickers over his face, though he masks it when he turns to meet Eamon’s eyes, “and Ferelden will always be grateful. I implore that you do this one more task.”

Alistair looks hard at him. “Oh, sure,” he says, the tension suddenly breaking into something more palatable, “devote my entire life, the tiny bit of it that remains, to ruling a country? Absolutely. It’s not like that’s a bunch of small tasks that combine into big tasks, all rolled up into a _giant_ task.” He walks towards the door, and his hand closes solid and firm around the Warden’s wrist. “You’re only asking me to be _king_ , is all. I could do that in my sleep. Couldn’t I do that in my sleep?”

“You could do that in your sleep,” the Warden agrees.

“I could do that in my sleep!” Alistair confirms, lifting their joined arms in triumph. “My lord,” he says, by way of goodbye, and he sweeps himself and the Warden into a bow. When they straighten themselves out, he pulls her along into the hallway, her mabari thumping happily behind them.

He lets her go when they pass the threshold, but he’s paced in front of her, walking with intent. His shoulders are broad and tense, and she watches the back of his head as he stalks down the hallway. When she looks down, his hands are pulled into loose fists.

“Alistair,” she says. He falters in his step, and she can’t help but feel relieved when he turns to her and doesn’t look angry. “I … I wasn’t thinking,” she tells him, “when I said ─ what I said about the kennels. I’m sorry.”

He smiles, radiant and charming. “You’re worried about _that?_ Perish the thought.” As if to demonstrate, he waves his hand, banishing the subject. “Like you said, they’re _very_ nice kennels.”

Her mouth twitches despite herself, and when he wiggles his eyebrows at her, she breaks into the smile she’d been fighting. “Here I was, thinking I’d put my foot in my mouth.” He chuckles, but his grin is dimming, and she watches him look back towards the Arl’s office.

He puts his hand on her shoulder, steering her towards an alcove in the hall with a bench and a table. There’s a servant there, but when she glances up at them, she stops wiping the table down and exits the bay with a little curtsy. Alistair waits until she’s out of sight before speaking.

“I’m more concerned about the whole king thing,” he admits, a little more somber. He leans closer to the Warden, lowering his voice. “I mean … me. King. Me! Have you met me? Be honest with me: do you really think I could do it? I could just be the king?”

She hesitates, but not because she doesn’t think so, and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. “If you really want honesty,” she trails off, until the earnest look he’s giving her reignites her back into action, “then yes. I really do think you could do it. More than that, I think you’d excel at it.” She lays a hand over his breastplate, trying to convey the sincerity of her words. “You’re a good man, Alistair. You’re brilliant in battle, you understand strategy, and you’re intimately acquainted with the pressure that comes with protecting something bigger than yourself. You understand war, and you understand not only sacrifice, but _personal_ sacrifice. You’ve given your life to the Wardens. No one knows what it’s like to live for others more than you.” She realizes belatedly that they’re standing closer than necessary, and his eyes are honey colored and warm and fixed on hers. Bolstered, she adds, “And you’re kind.”

He laughs, and the eyes she’d been watching crinkle at the corners in his amusement. “Would that not make me a rather _poor_ king? Aren’t all the best ones bloodthirsty and ruthless?”

“All the infamous ones,” she corrects, “but you’d be a _kind_ king. A good one. One that cared for his people, from all walks of Thedas. I know you, Alistair. You’d make life better for many, at many personal costs or no. I think Ferelden would be lucky to have you guide her. I mean that.”

He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now, and one of his brows is cocked up. “You really think so highly of me?”

“Not at all,” she insists, “I just want to watch you plunge Ferelden into chaos, and for it to burn for all of the Dragon age under your rule.” His smile grows, and she inclines her head towards him, grinning conspiratorially back. “Of course I do. You must know that. I think more of you than I do anyone else.”

From where she’s standing, she can see his cheeks grow pink, and he’s ducked his own head so their height difference isn’t quite so dramatic. “And I you,” he informs her, and his fingers hold onto her wrist again, keeping her palm pressed against his plate. “If … Say I _were_ to become king …” He hesitates, like he’s searching for the right way to phrase it. “That is to say ─ I would hope that you could ─ that you _would_ ─”

Whatever he wants to ask, he doesn’t get the chance to do so. “Oh-ho, and what have we here?” The Warden looks over her shoulder, following the silky sound of Zevran’s voice. The Crow is leaning against a wall opposite them, all teeth in his smile and arms crossed smugly over his chest. Alistair jerks his hand away like she’d burned him, and she lets her arm hand swing down to her side as well. “Am I interrupting?” His knowing grin tells her that he’s well aware that he was.

Alistair peels away from her, and his face is crimson. “No, not particularly. We were talking politics.”

“And here I thought Antiva had the most passionate politics. How happy I am to be proven wrong!” Zevran unlatches himself from the wall, approaching the Warden; when she glances to Alistair, he incredulously mouths _‘passionate?’_ She snickers, turning to give Zevran her full attention as he stops in front of her. “I hear you’re going to the Alienage. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to accompany you.”

“Of course,” the Warden says agreeably. “Alistair and I were leaving now, if that suits you?” 

“We were?” Alistair chimes in, a little petulant.

“It suits me marvelously!” Zevran holds his arms out. “I’m all packed and ready to go, as it were.”

The Warden nods her approval. “In that case! Alistair, get your shield. We’ll meet you at the gates.”

He squints between the Warden and Zevran, then heaves a sigh. “I’m going to be king, you know. You can’t boss me around.” He says as much, but he skulks down the hallway anyways, and he disappears around a corner a moment later.

Zevran offers her an arm, which she gladly takes. “Strange to think,” she says, as they start to walk, “that the man come to kill me is now the man come to be one of my closest friends.”

“I have that effect on people. No one’s ever been able to stay angry with me.” The Warden laughs, and he pats her hand. “Though our friendship is unexpected to me as well. Welcome, but unexpected.” He looks over his shoulder, then leans forward to peer around the threshold as they approach it, as if searching for someone. “Speaking of friendships. I must admit that I’m not joining you for just a pleasant stroll through the humble Alienage.” Hohaku shoots ahead, barking excitedly at the guardsmen flanking the door. One of them reaches down to pet him.

“I figured,” the Warden drawls, eyeing him. “What’s on your mind, Zev?”

“So I’ve heard,” he says, “that an old friend of mine may be visiting Denerim.” He pauses as they reach the entry, smiling in that charming way of his as one of the guards opens the doors; the Warden only barely manages to repress the eye roll when he blushes at Zevran’s smile. Once they’re in the courtyard, he continues. “You remember my story, no? With Taliesen and ─ Rinna?” If she hadn’t been listening, she might not have heard the way he tripped over his words.

As it was, however, she did hear it. “I remember. He’s here, then?” Hohaku catches up as she finishes speaking.

“That’s the rumor, at least. A rumor from a man who very much doesn’t care to lie to me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m already dead.” They stop at the gates, and Zevran looks to her. “If it’s true, however, then I thought it would be generous to warn you before you find yourself with your throat slit. I’m hoping to lure him out; he’ll be waiting for us to be in a vulnerable position. And not the pleasant kind. The Crows never cancel a contract ─ whether Taliesen is here for me, or for you, you and I are allied now. One way or another, we will have to deal with him.” His disposition changes, just a fraction. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to deal with him on my own…?”

“I don’t doubt you could,” the Warden says, slowly, “but I’d feel better about it if I were there. Or, I suppose, if you were there.”

She swears she might see something like relief flicker over Zevran’s face, but his smile is effortless and unchanged as always. “Are we feeling protective?”

“A little.”

He laughs, patting her hand again. “And lucky am I for it! Truly, is there any man more fortunate than I? Spared by my beautiful mark, whose life I sought to take, and in return she gives me mine and then demands I keep it. I live a charmed life!”

“Do you, now.” The Warden and Zevran look up, and Alistair stands behind them with his arms over his chest. His massive kite shield is fastened to his armor. “Am I late for the tea party? Are we talking about boys?”

Zevran tuts, pulling away from the Warden to pat Alistair’s cheek soundly. His scowl gets deeper. “Don’t be jealous, my friend! I’m usually the favorite in these situations.” He looks Alistair up and down. “I think I would be rather interested in hearing you talk about boys, however. It would be most enlightening.”

“The ─ That’s ─ I’m _not_ jealous, and if she had a favorite, it’d be me!”

“My favorite,” the Warden interjects, amused, “is my hound. Blight take the rest of you.” Hohaku’s panting excitedly when she looks down at him, and she strokes over his pointed ears affectionately. 

“I’m wounded,” Zevran says, grinning.

Alistair openly rolls his eyes, though it’s a little more playful now. “Yeah, well, not as wounded as me.” He spreads an arm out, gesturing to the expanse of the market before them. “Shall we, then?”

“We shall!” Zevran moves ahead, his daggers bright in the sunlight. “It’s a beautiful day, no? We should take the scenic route. I propose the alleyways. It would be a shame not to take in all the poverty of Denerim.”

The Warden laughs, and chaperones her little entourage past the estate’s massive pylons. “You think Taliesen is hunting us, even now?”

“I’d bet sovereigns on it,” Zevran answers, a little more soberly. “Maybe not right this moment, but the Crows will have people stationed in the market, in the alleyways. Sometimes, we’d even give the local urchins a silver to tell us when a mark was nearby. Anyone could be watching us. Once we’re vulnerable, Taliesen will know.” The pause that follows is a little more poignant. The Warden sees the intensity in Zevran’s bright eyes. “And then he’ll come to me.”

“Oh, what? Are we walking into a trap?” Alistair says from behind. “I knew there’d be trouble, but _no,_ we had to recruit the assassin.”

“It ends here,” Zevran tells Alistair. To his credit, his face softens somewhat, and he meets Zevran’s eyes with the same amount of sincerity. “Now. And then I’m free.”

It’s quiet for a moment, before Alistair rolls his shoulders, the metal creaking from the moment. “Right, well, it’s a good thing, being free.”

Zevran’s smile is wickedly excited. “I agree.”

“So,” Alistair drawls later, falling into step beside the Warden. “I’ve a question, if I may. Something I’ve been wondering.” They’ve entered the tunnels, and ahead of them, she can see the wooden portal ahead of them, the backyards of Denerim’s massive buildings.

“You may,” she allows, smiling up at him.

“Why Hohaku?” She arches a dark brow. “I mean, he’s the bad guy in that story. Bad dog, I guess. Why would you name him after the villain? That’s like … affectionately calling your husband Maferath.”

The Warden laughs despite herself. “Ah, well…” She clears her throat theatrically, and recounts, “I had a nanny, growing up. She was stern, with a good heart, and she wanted my brother and I to have good principles. There were other noble children, I recall, that she’d nursed before, and they turned out awful and spoiled. Treated their subordinates and their vassals badly, and there was never any justice.” She runs a hand over the coarse hairs on Hohaku’s scalp. “One of her favorite stories to tell us was of Hohaku’s pride. She always emphasized the moral: that those in power shouldn’t abuse it. I understand why. It’s a significant message, and I’m thankful she gave it to us. I was a rambunctious young girl, though, and I thought I was very clever. I respected her, and I loved her, but when I was gifted my very own war hound, when I came of age, I thought it’d be a right laugh to name him after Hohaku. Give Nan a headache. So I did. Oh, she called me glib for weeks. She didn’t think it was very funny.” She recalls Nan on that cold kitchen floor in the dark, her arm bent funny underneath her, her skirts stained with blood. “It _was_ funny,” she says, but it sounds as though she’s trying to convince herself.

“It’s a little funny,” Alistair accedes, but if he’s picked up on the shift in her tone, he’s decent enough to pretend not to notice. “And it fits. _The dog that bit.”_ Hohaku’s gone quiet beside her, ears twitching.

“You’re not still sore about that, are you? He’s a war hound; he could have taken your face off.” The memory of Alistair getting nipped, however, makes her laugh, and she has to squint up at him in the sunlight as they emerge into the alley’s main corridor, spacious and empty. Alistair glowers down at her, but she can see the cracks in his facade, amusement around the corners of his mouth.

“Oh yes, ho ho ho. It’s very funny. I’m glad the idea of my dismemberment brings you such joy.”

Zevran suddenly stops in front of them, and the Warden finally notices Hohaku’s ears pointed back, the muscles in his powerful legs taut with energy. “Funny you should mention dismemberment,” Zevran says, but he doesn’t get out anything else.

“And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last,” says a voice the Warden doesn’t recognize, “The Crows send their greetings, once again.”

The Warden’s hand rests on the hilt of her family sword, her eyes searching the compound. She can’t find him, not at first. Then, suddenly, like sunlight cast over a shadow, he’s there, up a flight of stairs. A man in Crow leathers, with dark hair and dark eyes. She can see the haft of two daggers strapped to his back, but his posture is relaxed, confident. He leans against the wall.

“So they sent you, Taliesen?” Zevran prompts, as though he didn’t know. “Or did you volunteer for the job?”

The man’s smile was slimy, charming but in a way that made the hair on the back of the Warden’s neck stick up. “I volunteered, of course!” he tells them. “When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

“Is that so?” Zevran holds his arms out, as though he was on display. “Well, here I am, in the flesh.”

“There you are,” Taliesen says, a little softly. The Warden sees something in Zevran’s jaw go tight. “You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, my old friend.” To her right, she can hear the click of Alistair’s sword from where he thumbed it out of the sheathe, quick and subtle. Zevran’s voice is gentle, but firm. “The answer is no. I’m not coming back ─ and _you_ should have stayed in Antiva.”

The silence stretches. Hohaku is growling, so low that the sound is nearly inaudible, and it’s making the muscles in the Warden’s arm tight; like her mabari, she’s taut, ready to fight. Zevran’s body language is relaxed, despite everything, and so is Taliesen’s. Finally, there’s movement.

Taliesen holds two hands out, palms facing their entourage in surrender. “You’re a fool, Zevran.” Despite his words, he smiles at the elf. “But I suppose that’s why we were such fast friends. Let’s not kill each other, hm? I like living, and clearly, so do you. Perhaps …” He hesitates. “Perhaps you’re doing something important, here. The rumors I’ve heard make this Blight sound unchecked, and I’d rather it not come to Antiva. I’ve heard even worse rumors of those who stand against the Wardens.”

There’s a guarded look on Zevran’s face; quiet and calm, no sign of unrest or shock. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Taliesen draws away from the wall, and his face is dour while he and Zevran stare each other down. “You’re not the only one with regrets, Zevran. Maybe I … Maybe I would like to make amends too.” He steps back, further into the shadows. “There’s an Arl. He’s a vocal disparager of Ferelden’s current regent. We’ve been asked to silence him. I didn’t take the contract, of course, because I wanted yours. I offer you this: Arl Bryland, of South Reach.”

The Warden can’t stop herself from holding her breath, the name sinking into her slowly. She knows the man.

“He will be in attendance at a gala, held at the Denerim Arling’s estate, very soon.” As he speaks, he angles his body away, clearly prepared to leave. Nonetheless, he keeps his eyes locked on Zevran’s. “And he will die there. You don’t want that; he’s the only man I’ve heard who’s pledged to your bastard king.” The Warden can hear Alistair shift on his feet. “I will return to Antiva, and I will tell them that the Warden has slain you.” His fingers twitch at his side. “Perhaps we will meet again, one day.”

Just like that, he’s slipped away, gone. For a moment, no one moves, or breathes, or speaks. The Warden looks back to Alistair; he meets her eyes, and then opens his mouth.

“Not here,” Zevran says, sharply. “We may not be alone.” The last part is hushed and low.

“We should go,” the Warden comments, idle, and she watches Hohaku. Her war dog is still on edge, but she can see his nostrils flaring as he sniffs at the air, his dark brown eyes catching on any movement he can see. “Now.”

“Now _there’s_ an idea.” Zevran urges them away, and they backtrack the way they’d come. Their pace is brisk, and all the while, the Warden keeps her eye on Hohaku. His hackles slowly start to lower, and by the time they’re near the marketplace, he’s panting and happy once again.

The Warden searches the rooftops, and finds nothing. She leads them onward, out into the public bustle of the marketplace. Children run by, laughing and shouting, and Alistair has to dance out of their way. She walks with purpose, swift, and asserts, “We _must_ convene with the Arl.”


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i HOPE these setup chapters aren't too slow!! 😩 we get into the party next chapter; if you've read this far, thank you so so much!!

Alistair hikes down the hallway as soon as they arrive, on course for the Arl’s office. The Warden pulls Zevran aside before they follow, in the same recess she and Alistair had occupied hours ago.

“Do you trust him?”

Zevran smiles at her, wry and sarcastic. “To stab us in the back only.”

She crosses her arms, eyes searching the lines of Zevran’s face. “So you think this is a trap. There’s no chance, at all, that he seeks atonement?”

He hesitates. “I …” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I don’t believe so. I would very much like to; Taliesen and I were ─ were friends. But I don’t believe he’d be willing to put himself in danger, not on my behalf. I know firsthand,” his voice goes venomous, “how far he’s content to go to protect himself.”

“Could he not change?” She hesitates, unsure if she should proceed, but she finishes her thought, “You did.”

He laughs, though the sound is kind. “Ah, I suppose I did.” He looks a little wistful, head tilted, and he brushes stray blond hair from out of his handsome face. “But Taliesen does not have what I do. I have  _ this, _ ” he motions around them, “this quest of yours, and the purpose that comes with it. I have  _ you. _ You’ve shown me kindness and mercy even when I, perhaps, did not deserve it. Taliesen only has the Crows.” He turns his eyes back to her, vivid amber. “Your soft heart is admirable, and I owe my life to it, but it can also blind you. You must trust me when I say that, no, I don’t believe he’s interested in atonement. Not for his sake, and not for mine.”

The Warden reluctantly rocks back on her heels, considering his words. “I trust you,” she concedes. “But is it possible that Arl Bryland is in danger nonetheless? Would the Crows use him as bait to lure us out?”

Zevran seems weary.  _ “That, _ I believe,” he agrees. “If this Arl Bryland is as influential as Taliesen would have us believe, if he’s making himself a problem ─”

“He is,” the Warden interrupts. “I grew up with his family. He and my father fought the Orlesians together, along with Howe. He’s  _ well _ respected. Our families have been close for … for as long as I can remember, and longer than that.” As she speaks, she recalls the parties from her girlhood, and she can, all at once, remember when Bryland’s presence was suddenly absent. “Come to think of it, he’d stopped coming to our soirées at the castle. He refused to if Howe was there ─ and Howe and my parents were very close, so he often was. My father told me that, after they suffered a terrible defeat, Howe married Arl Bryland’s sister. Supposedly, Bryland was furious. He cut all contact with the Howes.”

“So would he attend this gala?” he asks, looking at her through narrowed eyes. “If he truly hates this Rendon Howe, perhaps there’s a chance he won’t go to him. Then this would all be one funny joke we can laugh at. Ha ha.”

She chews on her lip, absorbing the information. If there’s even a chance ... “Gather everyone in my quarters, would you please? Once I’ve spoken with the Arl, I’d like to meet with you.”

Zevran bows, short, and takes off down the hall. With a whistle, the Warden bids Hohaku to follow her; when she arrives at the Arl’s office once more, Alistair and Eamon are talking lowly, quietly. She enters, uninvited, and closes the door behind herself.

“You went to the Gnawed Noble,” she reminds the Arl, in lieu of a polite greeting. “Do you know if Bryland is attending?”

Eamon ducks his head into a nod. “He is.”

The Warden throws her hands up in frustration. “My father has said he  _ hates _ Howe! Why would he entertain an invitation?”

“Why would anyone?” The Arl sighs, bone-deep. “Howe is not a popular man, but he currently holds more titles than anyone else in the Kingdom. He’s the Arl of Amaranthine, and Denerim, and he’s been made Teyrn of Highever; he’s a close friend to our Lord Regent. I’d imagine Bryland either seeks to denigrate Howe’s claim to these land holdings, or he plans to get back into Howe’s good graces. I won’t know for sure until I arrive tomorrow evening.”

She feels defensive on Bryland’s behalf, in spite of not seeing the man since she was a girl. She doesn’t believe Bryland would grovel before someone like Howe, not in a bid for power. Not even for mercy. Before she can voice her disagreement, however, Alistair speaks.

“You plan on attending?” he asks incredulously. “While there are assassins there? You could be next! You could be priority, even. You’re… I mean, the people  _ love _ you, and losing you would … my claim …” He trails off, and the Warden can tell it’s not the loss of Eamon’s political support that Alistair would mourn.

Eamon must understand as well. “I know.” His voice is gentle. “But I will have my honor guard.”

The Warden turns to the office door, studying the grain of the wood as she thinks. Truthfully, their ground is shaky as is. Losing support outside of the Arl and herself would make Alistair look unwanted at best, and unsupportable at worst. Eamon is a man many considered to be dying a short time ago, and Alistair is the unclaimed, badly kept secret. It’s uncertain footing, the support of a weak old man for a meek bastard ─ and they seem to be led by the disgraced youngest daughter of the treacherous Cousland family, traitors to the crown. Dairren, that poor sweet boy, had told her that many across Ferelden believed her father should have been king. 

She would seem the wicked consort, using the obedient, starry-eyed bastard; like she was ruling the kingdom through him, as her deceptive father would have wanted. Like this was her plan all along.

Not that she ─ no, she and Alistair weren’t … She has to fight to keep the blush down. They were firm friends, and he’d given her a rose with perceived intent, but nothing else had come of it. For all she knows, it’s simple idle fancy, light hearted flirtation from the sheltered Chantry boy who didn’t have to answer to any authority, because he  _ was _ the authority, and he could flirt with any girl he pleased now. If he was to be king, he could have any woman he wanted. As many as he wanted, even. Guiltily, and a little jealously, she clears her throat; this really isn’t the time to be thinking about it.

“This is dire,” she finally settles on. Turning to face the two men, she reads the agreement written on Eamon’s face. “But I have an idea. Alistair, may I borrow you?”

“Of course.”

“One moment, my lord,” she says to the Arl, “and then we’ll return.” 

She opens the door, and Alistair and Hohaku follow her down the hall. When they take the immediate turn, she can see Zevran has gathered their little entourage as she requested of him. Once Alistair and Hohaku are inside, she closes the door behind them.

“I think we should go,” she says, no preamble. Instantly, she’s met with disagreement.

“Waste of time.” Sten’s voice is low and gravely and steeped in disapproval, bitter like tea that sat too long. “An archdemon terrorizes the land, and we want to attend a  _ party? _ Basra vashedan.”

Morrigan’s seated at a vanity, legs crossed. “I agree. What good can one little man do us? I say let him die. ‘Tis more valuable to focus on controlling those already in secure power, than to struggle against the sorry fate of a man who is but one voice of many. Would it not be quicker and simpler to go directly to the source?”

“You’re still on about killing Loghain?” Alistair asks her wearily.

“And why wouldn’t I be, fool? Is it not the same for the Blight? Do we stumble around in the dark, searching for Darkspawn sentinels, or do we cut the head off the archdemon?” She waves him off with a sneer. “Are you sure you’re truly a Grey Warden?”

“Point taken,” the Warden juts in, before she and Alistair can get into it, “but it’s possible Loghain may be attending this salon. Should we try to assassinate him now, we’d end up at the estate anyways.” She slices her hand through the air, as if trimming down the bullshit. “And this isn’t about just one man. This is about the armies. If Alistair is not made king, if we cannot unite Ferelden, then the civil war will always take precedence over the Blight.”

“The Arls and Banns won’t be convinced,” Alistair agrees, “not until they have one banner to unite under. They all think they have the right idea, and they won’t yield unless they’re forced to.” He clicks his tongue in frustration. “They should see what we can see.”

“If only will could make it so.” The Warden can still hear the way her father sounded when he’d told her just that.

Sten grunts, crossing his arms. “How we have not conquered you yet will always astonish me.”

She grins at him. “A mystery for the ages.”

“The hearts of men  _ are _ fickle,” Wynne chimes in. She’s seated on the bed, her wrinkled hands brushing down the fabric of her skirt. “You, Alistair, and I have all seen it firsthand at Ostagar, when Loghain left Cailan to die.” Alistair looks at his feet somberly. Wynne clasps her hands in her lap, sounding just as wise as she always does. “I just worry about the risk it will present to you. Neither of you are welcome at court, after all. It helps no one to charge headstrong into danger.” She wavers for a moment, and then continues. “And do you truly believe you can stand in the same room as Arl Rendon Howe, and trust yourself to let him go?”

The Warden feels the muscles in her jaw twitch when she clenches her teeth, and she stares at the wall past Wynne’s ear rather than meet her eyes. It takes her a heartbeat, two, and then she says, clipped, “A Grey Warden’s duties take precedence, even over vengeance.” She wipes at her mouth, briefly, with the pads of her fingers clad in leather. “That is what Duncan told me, the night I was recruited. I’ve known all along.” She meets Wynne’s eyes again. “I can do this.”

Wynne’s face is soft. She nods in acknowledgment.

Leliana speaks next, sounding giddy, “You would need a plan. A plan I happen to have.” She stands near the fire with Sten.

“Have at it,” the Warden says, motioning for Leliana to take the proverbial floor. She does, approaching the center of the room to speak.

“Oh, I have dabbled in matters of the court,” she begins, a grin spreading across her face. “Orlesian politics are much more complicated than Ferelden ones, but,” she flicks her wrist, waving it off, “that is not the point. The point is that this salon is a gambit, from all parties attending. We all know this, yes? They will call it a night of leisure, but they will all be talking about the Landsmeet. Banns, Arls, wealthy nobles: they all have gold and influence, and they will try to spread theirs accordingly. I’ve attended many of these salons. I would fit right in, and so would  _ you, _ Lady Cousland.”

The Warden’s eyebrows arch upwards despite herself. “What.”

“I propose that we send in a small team. Zevran,” she says, motioning to him, “and I have … particular skills that we can employ for your benefit. If I attend as a noble, I can keep an eye on Arl Bryland, and stop anyone who comes too near. I can also petition others to stand behind good king Alistair ─ even if a Bann is not convinced, his freeholders could be. With enough pressure from his vassals, he may be persuaded to support the more popular choice: Alistair. You remember what I told you, yes? Men hear what they want to hear; they see promise where they want to see promise. Oh, that is half the fun with the Game! The implications, the subtlety. It would be an easy task to talk them into supporting us at the Landsmeet.”

“Talk them into it?” The air around Alistair is uncomfortable when he asks his question. “Or seduce them into it?”

“What’s the difference?” Leliana asks coolly. “I  _ make _ no promises. I act upon nothing. It would simply be a conversation, or a smile. What potential they see in that conversation or smile is  _ theirs  _ to act upon.”

Alistair doesn’t seem convinced, but the Warden says, “We can debate the morals of it later. Leliana’s skills as a bard  _ would _ be useful, especially now. This isn’t a beast we can conquer with swords. I say if a man could be convinced to join us against tyranny, against the Blight, then we should take advantage of that.”

She knows he doesn’t want the kingdom at all, and the idea of winning it with deceit must disturb him. It’s all she can do to not put a hand on his shoulder, and instead she gives him an earnest look, hoping he understands.

“I suppose so,” Alistair mumbles, subdued.

Zevran seems to have had an idea of his own. “Yes,” he jumps in, excitedly, “you beautiful, dangerous Orlesian, you! Leliana is your agent on the floor, and I’m your agent in the shadows. I can search for our could-be assassins and dispatch them quietly. Locked doors are no object, either; and this estate is your man’s major land holding, and the one he spends the most time in.” He seems smug from where he leans against the door. “What sort of secrets hide in its walls, do you think? What might I find in his office, or his bedchambers?”

The Warden felt a grin start on her face. “Something to weaken Howe with,” she says.

“And, in turn, Loghain. If I were to acquire a uniform, I could pass as a servant. No one will pay attention to another elf; Leliana and I would be hiding in plain sight. All I would need is a … distraction.” He and Leliana are smiling at each other now, conspiratorially, and the Warden knows they’ve reached the same conclusion. “A distraction large enough that Howe gathers most of his guards to himself. A distraction such as, say, the Lady Cousland attending the salon, despite all odds.”

“The theatrics!” Leliana gushes. “The intrigue! The whispers! Oh, it’s all so romantic. You, swooping in to defend your family name. Howe will have no choice but to focus his attention on you all evening ─ his guards, too. Zevran may move about more freely, that way, and no one will glance twice at me.”

“Because they’ll be staring at me,” the Warden points out uneasily.

“No.” Alistair’s arms cross tightly over his chest, and his jaw is set. “Absolutely not. No way.” He turns to the Warden, imploring her, “See reason! If you go to this event as Lady Cousland, they could ─ Howe would ─ he’s a dangerous man. Shall we dress you up as an archery boss to make it really obvious, and let the arrows fly?”

“Well, she  _ is _ the boss,” Oghren slurs, laughing at his joke. “Can I come, too? I will,” he wiggles his fingers, “listen for seeecrets. Near the keg. All night.”

Alistair scowls at him. “Back me up, and I’ll buy you all the Ferelden ale I can carry, for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t go, Warden!” Oghren cries.

Leliana tuts. “It’s not as though she’d be alone! We would just want Howe to  _ think _ she’s alone. But I would be there, of course. You know I’d protect you, right?” She aims the last part to the Warden, and she nods her assent. Leliana  _ would. _ “See?”

“It would make you a target,” Zevran admits. “Why go for the Arl when an assassin could have  _ the _ Grey Warden, after all, no? Haha! No, I don’t suppose that’s very funny.” He stands with Leliana. “I would be there, too. You’ve protected me from the Crows ─ now allow me to do the same for you. There’s much potential here. I would not suggest it if I believed it was doomed to fail.”

“Nor I,” Leliana agrees.

“Oh, how heartwarming,” Morrigan coos from her seat, dripping with condescension. “I am truly touched. You are all going to die.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Wynne remarks, shooting Morrigan a nasty look. It eases when she faces the Warden, motherly in her concern. “It seems a great risk.”

The Warden’s mulling it over as they speak. “Losing Bryland and Eamon would hurt just as much,” she says, more to herself than to anyone else. She clears her throat. “What makes you think Howe won’t have me imprisoned as soon as I walk in?”

Leliana replies, “Because there will be witnesses; witnesses that don’t believe Loghain’s lies about the Grey Wardens. I’ve heard that some Banns only follow him out of fear. They could see a different path: one of promise, and freedom. You are a member of some of the most powerful nobility in Ferelden, second only to the royal family ─ should you not have the platform to defend your dignity, your honor? Should you not be able to prove that you are not what Loghain and Howe claim you to be?”

The Warden shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I  _ was _ a member of a powerful noble family. They’re all dead now, and Howe would have Ferelden believe the Couslands were traitors to the throne. He will proclaim I’m cut from the same treacherous cloth.” 

“And you will demand the outlet to uphold your name, as a Cousland. Your family was ─  _ is _ well beloved. I have no doubt that some are willing to believe that they could have committed treason,” she confesses, turning her face away from the Warden, before she peers back again, “but there will be others that will remember your family as they were: patriotic, kind, and honorable countrymen. They will want you to absolve yourself, and the Cousland name, and they will gladden at the chance to allow you to do so.”

“Do you really think it will be that easy?” 

Leliana’s smile is sweet, sincere. “Of course not, but when is it ever? Take comfort in knowing that the more of a scene you cause, the more freedom we have to work. You will be our priority, of course! We won’t allow anything to happen to you, and even a man like Howe can’t be unhinged enough to have you publicly executed or thrown into the dungeons at a gala.” Zevran nods as she speaks.

The Warden darkens, and she can feel the leather of her gloves creaking as she clenches her fists. “You don’t know Rendon Howe the way I do.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out as accusatory as it does, but Leliana doesn’t seem offended. She softens, if anything, though she and Zevran exchange looks.

“... I know,” she grants. “Take heart, my friend. Ferelden politics are much more straightforward than the Grand Game, and Howe must play by the rules at times. I don’t believe he would risk his position, not in front of so many eyes. If he did, he would lose.” She falters. “I would never let anything happen to you,” she insists, “but … if you really do not wish to ─”

“No,” the Warden says, sternly, “I agree. I’ll do it.” She rubs at her forehead. “I’m sure the Arls’ guards are fine warriors, but I admit I’d feel better, being there in person.”

“For the love of ─” Alistair takes a step towards her, hands held out in front of him, fingers tense and outstretched, like he wants to strangle her. “You make me  _ crazy. _ I’m not letting you do this.”

Zevran claps him heartily on the back, steering Alistair away and towards the door. “Excellent idea, Alistair!”

“I … What?” His hands ease up, and he follows Zevran willingly in his confusion. 

“You will attend, as well.” Zevran pulls the door open, ushering Alistair out. “Go tell your Arl Eamon that you will take the place of one of his guards.”

Leliana brightens. “How clever! They’ll be wearing helmets. No one will know it’s you, Alistair!”

“Only if he keeps his  _ fool _ mouth shut,” Morrigan notes.

“And that way, we have one of our own inside as well. It would be a great assistance if Alistair could watch our Lady Cousland, so I can devote my attention to the nobles. Though I do hesitate to put the future king of Ferelden in danger, but ─”

“Blight take the throne,” Alistair snaps vehemently, clapping a hand on the door frame. The Warden blinks at him, mouth parting in her surprise. “She’s not expendable. If Ferelden can’t lose me, then we can’t lose her.”

Stunned, Leliana says, “I … I did not mean to imply ─”

“You didn’t,” the Warden assures her. Turning to Alistair, she tells him, “Ferelden won’t lose either of us. We’ve faced high dragons! Maker’s blood, we’re practically untouchable.” She laughs, and, tensely, he smiles back. “We can get through an evening of politics. Given Howe hasn’t poisoned the wine. Come with me, Alistair.” She pauses, then offers, “Unless you’d rather not.”

Leliana signals to Sten and Oghren. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe a dwarven or Qunari mercenary would be welcome at such an event, so it must be Alistair.”

The Warden swears she can see the corners of Sten’s mouth twitch. “Such a shame,” he says thickly, voice deep with sarcasm.

Alistair lifts his eyes from Zevran, meeting the Warden’s; something in his eyes is searching, brows drawn tight. Slowly, she smiles at him, hoping that will appease him.

His jaw sets. “I don’t like this,” he tells the room, though the Warden can see he’s been persuaded, “but I agree.” He lowers his hand, turns, and makes his way down the halls.

“Then it’s settled,” Zevran declares, turning back to face the entourage as a whole. “Leliana will attend as a wealthy benefactor, and I will play the part of the meek elven servant. Alistair will attend as the dumb, but goodhearted guard, and you, Warden, will attend as yourself.” A little more seriously, he continues, “You have my word that I will bring you  _ something  _ to use against Howe, a weapon you may brandish against him in court.”

“And you have mine, that I will do my work as a bard to your advantage,” Leliana pipes in, “and I will protect your ally.”

Morrigan scoffs, rolling her eyes. “And you have mine, to try and not vomit.” She stands up, cocking a hip. “‘Tis your life, and your time. Do with it what you will.” She says it in that haughty tone she gets, like she’s above it, but it’s plain to see the disapproval in her body language.

“Don’t be jealous. You can go instead, if you’d like,” the Warden teases. Zevran whistles.

“The sky would sooner rip open than I would don a hideous gown and attend a ball with cretins,” she sneers, but the corner of her mouth has twitched up into a smirk. “Jealous. Don’t be absurd.”

With that, she quits the room. Hohaku, who was always partial to her for whatever reason, follows after. A breath later, and the distant sounds of Morrigan telling him to  _ go away, you mangy dog, I have no biscuits for you! _ float into the room. The Warden grins.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Leliana asks her, as Sten settles in near the fireplace. “We get to go shopping!”

The Warden barks out a laugh. “Maker preserve me.”

(She will not admit that she is, in fact, very excited to go shopping with Leliana.)

“Oh, it’ll be such fun! I wonder what to put you in … you must be the most eye catching thing at the salon, certainly. Armor would seem too threatening. Howe will just say you’re there to kill them all. But a dress ─ oh, a beautiful, flowing dress, low cut to show off your, ahem, beautiful features … I cannot wait! We should go now!” Her cheeks color, and she smiles shyly. “That is, if you’re not busy, of course. Forgive me, I get so carried away when it comes to fine things.”

“Nothing to forgive,” the Warden says. “Give me just a moment to attend to the Arl, and then we can go.” Leliana’s beaming at her, and the Warden tries to fight her own smile, but she’s failing.  _ This is serious, _ she tells herself,  _ there are assassins.  _ But what she says is, “I’d like blue, I think. And white, or silver. Grey Warden colors.”

Leliana’s eyes get bright. “I have so many ideas already. I’ll wait for you in the courtyard!” She turns to Zevran, motioning for him to follow her. “Shall we, Zevran? I have much I’d like to discuss with you.”

Zevran offers her an arm, which she takes. “Of course! Our conversations about the hunt always invigorate me. I do admit, I’m rather looking forward to getting back in action. Killing people directly is fine enough, but there’s an artistry to doing it undetected, no?”

“Oh, I agree,” Leliana enthuses, as they leave the room, and the Warden listens to as much of their conversation as she can until they’re too far to hear.

Wynne stands before the Warden can leave herself. “I understand the necessity of having as much Bann support as possible,” she says, laying a hand on the Warden’s bicep, “but do try and be careful.”

The Warden puts her hand over the mage’s. “I will. If I didn’t, I’d have to worry about you dragging me out by the ear in front of all the lords and ladies, wagging your finger the whole time. The shame would kill me sooner than any weapon of Howe’s.”

Playing along, Wynne shakes her finger at the Warden. “And don’t you forget it, young lady.” She smiles approvingly. “Darkspawn are simpler than men. You know, always, that they intend to cut you down; your fellows, however, do not have quite so clear a purpose, at times. It’s not just physical harm we must concern ourselves with.” 

The Warden understands. Howe may not be able to kill her outright, but no doubt he would try and drive her mad. She still remembers Duncan’s grip, tight and unyielding, on her forearm. The way he’d wrenched her away, pulling her along the floor, into the tunnels. She’d tripped and stumbled, because she’d been looking back, watching her parents’ faces grow distant.

Wynne moves her hand away. “But I trust your resolve. I have a feeling you’ll be fine. Now, don’t let me keep you.” Before the Warden vacates, Wynn calls, “And do speak to Alistair. If he worries much more about you, his hair will be as gray as mine before the end of this Blight, mark my words.”

Something warm and pleasant blooms in the Warden’s chest, and she smiles shakily at Wynne and clumsily bow-curtsies, though she’s not sure why she does. Thoroughly embarrassed, she flees down the hall as Wynne chuckles to herself.

Alistair is finishing up his explanation as the Warden enters the office once again. “... to distract them,” he’s recalling, and he spares the Warden a brief glance, “while Zevran searches the rooms for … documents? Missives? Embarrassing steamy letters? Anything that will implicate Howe or Loghain. Leliana plans to listen for useful gossip and to try and sway our detractors to our side. Er. My side. We’ll all watch the Arl.” He hesitates, then says to the Warden, “And I will watch you.”

Arl Eamon’s eyebrows are both raised, and he studies Alistair, then the Warden. “Well,” he says, after a long minute, “I can’t say that this is the brightest plan we’ve ever had, but I approve.”

“... You do?” Alistair asks, cringing.

“Of course. I agree; we cannot lose any support. Not now, when we’re so weak. We have enough footing to call the Landsmeet, and I’ve spread word of Loghain’s treachery. We have armies at our backs. But it’s not quite enough, not yet.” He sits back against his desk, palms pressed into the edge of it. “Your … allies … could do much, of course, and I’m grateful for their help ─ but Howe’s reaction to the last remaining Cousland will hurt his cause as well. I doubt he can hold his tongue.” He looks a little apologetic. “The more incendiary his remarks, the more unstable he’ll appear. I wish it weren’t so, but you being there will likely allow many of his advocates privy to what kind of man he truly is: unkind and uncompromising. To put it politely.”

Alistair’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I understand,” the Warden says. “Rile Howe up? Make him angrier than he’s ever been in his life?” Her grin is irreverent, and her tone of voice even more so. “I think I could do that. In fact, I’d argue that this task will be the easiest yet.”

Eamon smiles obligingly. “So be it. Tomorrow evening, you’ll attend as my guard,” he tells Alistair, “and we’ll travel separately. I imagine we’ll arrive sooner than the rest of your companions, so please come see me before the sun sets.” He glances at the Warden. “Is there anything else? If not, I will accept the invitation and send word of my ─ our ─ attendance.”

“That suits me fine,” the Warden allows. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She lowers her head, respectfully and shortly, and then makes for the door. “I seem to find myself in desperate need of a gown.” 

Arl Eamon laughs as she leaves.

She doesn’t check behind herself, because she doesn't need to; she knows Alistair is following. She invites herself into his quarters, slipping inside and padding across the stone floor. The door clicks shut behind her, and when she turns around, Alistair’s leaning against it, not meeting her eyes.

“I don’t mean to undermine you,” he explains, with no prompting, “and for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I know we need Arl Bryland. I guess I’m just … feeling protective.” He’d been watching the fireplace, but, a little uncertainly, his eyes flicker to her face. “Is that stupid, do you think?”

The Warden tries to school her face into compliance, but despite herself, she starts laughing. Alistair’s making a moody face when she covers her mouth to try and get her giggling under control. “No!” she says, even though she’s still laughing. “No, Alistair. It’s not stupid. I’m sorry, I just ─ if the Witch of the Wilds couldn’t kill me, a little party most certainly can’t, wouldn’t you say?” She grins at him, arching her brows. “Well, maybe the boredom could.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, but he's smiling back at her, like he can’t help it.

Warmly, she places a hand on his wrist. “I know. I feel the same about you, Alistair. All the better that we’ll be there together then, isn’t it?”

His face instantly goes indulgent, all soft around the eyes and mouth, and he looks as young as he really is all at once. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“You’ll watch my back?”

“If you’ll watch mine,” he says, hushed.

She grins at him. “Of course. Always.” She gestures for him to move aside. “Perhaps you can even save a dance for me?”

The Warden mostly says it to see him blush, and he does. Cheeks growing pink, he laughs nervously. “Oh! Uh!” He slides across the door, giving her access to the hall again. “Well, ah, I don’t know if that’s ─” She cocks a brow, and he stumbles through his thoughts. “I mean, yes! Yes, of course. Er, not that I want to seem overeager, but I ─ I would like that. Dancing was never really a strength of mine, just so you know, I might step on your feet, though I did learn to waltz at a very young age, what with the whole, you know, royalty thing, not that I was ever going to be put on the throne, of course, but Arl Eamon thought I should learn, considering I was often expected to behave a certain way in his estate, but I found it very boring and fell out of practice as soon as I was sent to the monastery. Am I talking too fast? I feel like I’m talking too fast.”

Peals of laughter escape her as he speaks, and he glares at her while she laughs and laughs once he’s finished.

“You’re a wicked woman,” he accuses her, red faced. “I hate you.”

It takes a moment for her to calm herself down, but between chuckles, she says, “No, you don’t. You care about me.”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

“But today’s Friday, and yet you admit to feeling protective.”

“Just ─ go! You’re killing me here!” Even as he says it, he can’t fight the grin overtaking his face.

She opens the door, but before she exits completely, she leans back in to meet his eyes again. “You promise you’ll save me a dance?”

The countenance he wears gives her pause, and she finds herself drawn to the affectionate warmth of his eyes, the fond way his mouth pulls into a smile, a little shy, a lot handsome.

“I promise.”


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i don't particularly enjoy describing clothes in writing  
> also me: so let's write a party fic where the clothes are pretty!!!

The Warden waits by the main entryway, flanked by Leliana and Zevran, on the eve of the soirée. Eamon and his honor guard had been preparing for the last hour, and they’d depart soon; the Warden had planned to see them off, to make sure they were all in accord. 

She isn’t  _ terribly _ nervous ─ she’s survived worse than assassins, after all ─ but there’s a thrum of energy just under her skin that she can’t quite put out of mind. In spite of her tough facade in front of Wynne the day before, she has to admit to a certain … trepidation. The idea of seeing Howe again, surrounded by wealthy nobles who would call him  _ Teyrn _ , boils her blood. She can feel the muscles in her wrist tense as she clenches her fist, humoring a fantasy where she drove it into Howe’s nose until his face was pulpy and unfamiliar.

She’d seen him once already. They’d been accosted after their arrival in Denerim; Loghain, his guard, and Howe. She thought she’d be better, that she’d be stoic, but the first thing she had spat was,  _ “I demand blood rights! This man murdered my family!” _

So, no. It wasn’t a grand start. But she was prepared this time. She  _ knew _ she would see him. She could control her tongue, and she owed it to Zevran, to Wynne, to the Grey Wardens, to Alistair. This was bigger than her rage, though  _ that _ ran deeper and uglier than she thought it did. 

She didn’t want to confront the grief ─ many a time, it incited her. She’d get hurt on the field, and in her daze, in her blood loss, she’d think back on the death on her father’s face, the pallor of his skin, and she’d draw on the adrenaline and the fury of it. She’d get forced back, only to push forward harder than before, relishing in the cleave of flesh and bone when she dragged her father’s sword through her adversary. Wynne would scold her later, tell her that that sort of blind action could worsen her wounds, cause her to bleed out; she should fall back, get some help, and then rejoin the fray.

She thinks of how she did just that for her mother, how she quit the field for her and regrouped, and how her mother had died because of it.

“...Warden?”

She snaps to attention. Tearing her eyes from the stately painting of a forest landscape lined with waterfalls on the wall in front of her, she meets Eamon’s arched brow and careful inspection. He stands in front of her, and his honor guard is positioned around him in handsome golden and white suits of armor, engraved with Redcliffe’s coat of arms. She can immediately tell which one Alistair is, because he’s standing slightly out of line, head cocked to see her better. She looks back to the Arl.

“Uh,” she says, smartly, “I apologize. I was ─ distracted.”

“You can say that again,” Alistair says, his voice metallic through his armor. He pulls the extravagant gilded helmet off his head, hair lightly tousled, and grins at her. “You were practically drooling. It was very charming.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper, telling the guard in front of him, “Not really. I just don’t want to hurt her feelings.” The guard’s helmet is stolid, but she has a suspicion he’s rolling his eyes at Alistair underneath.

The Warden knows she should review with Eamon, but she finds herself looking Alistair up and down instead. The aurum tones of the armor make his blond hair seem lighter, and the pale metal undercut throughout makes the tan of his skin warm and inviting. The suit’s an attractive trim on him: his broad shoulders are emphasized under the pauldrons protecting them, imposing and powerful, and his waist seems smaller because of it. She swallows, a little hard. “Wow. You look almost respectable.”

He places a gauntlet-clad hand over his chest, faux-offended. “My Lady, I’m wounded. Don’t I always?” He hoists the helmet under his arm, balancing it against his hip. “Also,  _ almost _ respectable? Such cruelty. Are you just being shy? I won’t make fun of you. It’s understandable you’d be intimidated. I get that a lot; I’m very suave, after all. Go on, you can tell me I’m handsome. I can take it.”

She grins, looking up at him through her lashes coyly. “My lips are sealed.”

“Oh, I get it.” The playful smile he wears makes his eyes narrow, brows bowed smugly. “I’ll get it out of you yet.”

Eamon very loudly clears his throat.  _ “As I was saying.”  _ He shoots Alistair a look, and Alistair hastily shoves his helmet back on. “We’re departing now. I’ve offered to let Leliana travel with us.” He extends an arm, which Leliana takes. 

She’s dressed in a flattering gown, rich burgundy in color, and she looks ravishing. Her pale skin and red hair are striking against the deep color, and her petticoat creates an appealing silhouette at her hips. Mauve accents break up the dark color, highlighting her features, and the Warden wishes they were attending for leisure. Leliana would make excellent company at a salon, she thinks.

The Blight must end. She knew that. When the archdemon lies dead, then they may partake in frivolities as much as they wished, before the next duty calls upon them. She takes comfort in that, at the very least.

“We’ll be taking her most of the way, and she’ll walk the rest. When we arrive, I’ll send the carriage back for you. That should, hopefully, be enough time for you to prepare, though I must admit I expected you to already be dressed ─”

“If I may.” Zevran moves forward. “I think, perhaps, the Warden and I should travel on foot, alone. Howe’s guards may just turn her away at the door, should she show up in a respectable manner. I still need a uniform, however, so  _ I _ will be going in a different way, and I’ve offered to take her with me.” The Warden signals her agreement with a nod. “We’ll sneak in, quietly, and she’ll make her grand debut while I distract any men watching the concert hall. From what I hear of this Howe, he’s very paranoid. I don’t doubt there will be guards stationed at every doorway.”

The Arl looks between them. “Very well. I trust you to know matters like these better than I.” With Leliana’s hands decorating his arm, he asks her, “Shall we?”

“Of course. Thank you again for the chaperone, my lord.” As they pass, she says to the Warden, “We will see you there. Good luck, my friend.”

Alistair breaks rank when he reaches the door, standing beside her. “I like your paint,” he says, referring to the blue powder she’s swept over her eyelids, smokey and dark at the corners. “But I have to admit, I’m disappointed you’re not dressed.”

The Warden grins up at him, crossing her arms. “You’re usually supposed to be disappointed when women  _ are _ dressed.” He snorts, and it’s strange to hear when she can’t see his face, nor the smile she knows he’s wearing. She nudges him with her shoulder, squarely in the chest. “You’ll see at the salon. It’s just a dress, really.” She says as much, but she’s rather proud of her and Leliana’s selection. She thinks she looks good, and it makes her miss having fine clothes all the time, loath as she is to admit it to herself; she’s given up that life, though, and she’s made peace with it. On a happier note, she informs him proudly, “Grey Warden colors, no less.”

He holds his hands up, like she’s a bonfire and he’s fighting off her heat. “Well, look at you! Wearing our colors and all. That’ll cause a stir. I look forward to the scandal.” From the outside, Eamon barks Alistair’s name. “I, ah … Well. Just be careful.”

Her smile softens, the distant bitter taste at the back of her throat melting into tenderness. “I don’t make that promise unless you do.”

“We’ll see. I make no promises if the wine is good.” He says it in jest, and he pats her shoulder vigorously as he leaves.

“Alistair,” she calls, just after he’s crossed the threshold. The dwindling sunlight glints off his helmet when he turns his head to look at her, and she has to shield her eyes with her palm. “You do look very handsome.”

The helmet’s face is blank, but she can see his hands clenching into loose fists at his sides, releasing, tightening. Crisply, he nods his head, and then he’s stepping into line with the rest of the guards. Smiling after him, she watches them depart, until the sound of hooves and marching soldiers is faint.

Zevran’s voice cuts through the atmosphere. “Well, if you’re  _ quite _ done acting like the heartbroken wife watching her husband leave for war...” Broken from her reverie, she shoots Zevran a cocky grin, only half-heartedly apologetic. He takes it in good humor, his own mouth curled into a smile. “I recommend we set off as well. We’ll cut through the alleys and approach near the back, so as not to be seen. We’re likely to arrive last. But that is good! Fashionably late, I say. You’ll be the talk of the salon.” He runs a hand over his hair, pulling the strands from his face, only for them to fall back immediately. “Last night, I paid the house a visit ─ it’s very large, which will work to our advantage. There must be unused rooms we can use to get you ready. Obviously, I didn’t linger long enough to make note of patrols, but that’s quite all right. Stay behind me, follow when I signal, and we’ll be fine, no?”

She uncrosses her arms. “Crashing a wealthy party and basking in the glamor? Drinking all of Howe’s expensive spirits? Oh, I imagine we’ll be more than fine.” Zevran shares her underhanded grin. “Allow me to fetch my things, and we’ll take our leave, if you please.”

Zevran beckons her off with a chuckle.

Hohaku’s tail beats happily against the bedding as she enters her quarters. Wynne is there as well, seated at the fireplace, and reading one of the books the Warden had picked up for her during their travels ─ from her angle, she can see it’s the one about Dragon’s Blood, and she hopes Wynne will make the spicy sauce described on the binding one of these days, before the Blight … well. She hopes Wynne makes it, is all.

“I bathed your mabari,” Wynne says, without looking up.

The Warden stoops to kiss him, and breathes in deeply. “Well! Hohaku, you smell delightful. Did you say thank you to Wynne?” He whines his answer, a low droning sound. “Good boy.” She reaches across his prone body, his tail wildly wagging, and grabs hold of her satchel. Her gown is already inside, but she checks again anyways, just to be sure. Assured that she’s ready, she hefts it onto her shoulder. “Thank you, Wynne. Though, really, I’m not sure I  _ should _ be thanking you. You spoil my hound much more and he’ll be a lap dog before the end of this Blight yet.”

Wynne turns a page primly. “He’s already a lap dog, dear, I’ve seen how you hold him.”

The Warden laughs, rubbing Hohaku affectionately behind the ears. “Point taken.” Her father’s sword is strapped to her back, and she lifts her shield as well.  _ Just in case, _ she tells herself, sliding it onto her spare shoulder. “I’ll be back tonight,” she tells both Wynn and Hohaku. “Hopefully without anyone throwing their drinks at me. Or tomatoes. Whatever it is people do to traitors.”

Wynne titters from her seat, sinking lower into the loveseat and stretching her legs out to the crackling fire, and the Warden turns on her heel to make for the door ─ but something stops her.

On a little table near a bookcase sits Alistair’s rose. She’d requested a glass for it, and though it looked a little worse for wear in age, it was still alive. Most likely due to the water and sunshine she’d been giving it; perhaps it was silly, but if she had the time, she would move it around the room, chasing the sun, so it could soak up as much of the daylight as it could. Even so, she didn’t know how much longer it had left in its bloom.  _ Bringing it would be foolish, _ she tells herself. It could fall and get trampled on, and she’d be heartbroken, and Alistair would probably be annoyed she’d been so careless with his gift, and it didn’t particularly go with her dress, anyways.

She runs her fingers over the petals, velvety and soft and stunning red, if not a little dark around the edges. Carefully, she plucks it out of the water and sets it over the top of her gown in its satchel. She feels like a little girl, blushing over a single flower, but the knots in her stomach are good, pleasant in their tightness and the way they make her breathing quicken.

Peeking at Wynne to make sure she hadn’t been watching, she exits the room in a rush, though she’s mindful of her satchel and the rose within, treating them both with the utmost care.

It’s dark when they arrive, and Zevran prowls a few paces in front of her. They’ve breached the border of the estate, lined with partitions full of sweet-smelling ivy and hedges that Zevran currently ushers her behind. Ahead of them, a guard passes by, yawning wide and long as he patrols.

Zevran’s natural; he moves virtually silently, his dark armor blending in with the deep greens of the gardens. He waits, then motions for her to follow. She’s opted for leathers rather than her typical plate, but she’s still not as quiet as him. Luckily, no one’s nearby, and he leads her further through the expansive back gardens, between decorous rose bushes and beautiful gazebos dimly alight with low-burning lanterns. They dodge away from the light, and Zevran has the two of them trampling over the wildflowers kept in prettily arranged beds.

The palisade grows distant behind them as they advance, and Zevran slinks towards a cracked door once they reach the grandiose manor. They’re near the very back of the house, and there’s noise inside, but it’s far away and muffled, like waking from a dream.

“The guards just leave a door open during a salon, unattended?” the Warden whispers, sidling close to him. He shakes his head in the negative.

“I told you I visited, did I not? Howe is  _ not _ a popular man. A servant agreed to grant us an entry ─” He coughs into his fist quietly. “Well, the twenty silvers I gave her helped, no doubt, but she had many unflattering things to say about him. In fact, I think she’s rather hoping we do something unsavory to him tonight, but I digress. If the door is open, the passage is safe, she’s said. We’d best hurry before it becomes less so.”

The Warden looks at him approvingly, and Zevran smugly waggles his eyebrows at her.

“Now, wait here for just a moment,” he shushes, and when he peers into the doorway, what he must see pleases him. He eases his way inside, gracefully and quietly, and closes the door to just a crack once again. He speaks to her through the small opening in a whisper, “I have a uniform waiting for me in the larder. I’ll fetch you once I’m prepared.”

Several minutes pass, which she spends leaning against the wall and flattening herself as much against it as she could, for fear a guard would show up, ring the alarm, she’d have to maim him, and the whole plot would fall to ruin. Luckily, it’s not long before Zevran is leaning out of the door again and clicking his tongue at her. Sparing the gardens one last cursory glance, she slips inside ─ and knocks her shield hard against the doorframe when she jumps in surprise. The entire kitchen staff is there, going about their business as though two strangers in armor weren’t breaking in. She stands wildly, hand outstretched to stop any of them from screaming, but no one even looks at them aside from a few good-humored glances.

Zevran grins widely, giving her silent applause. “Masterful composure, my friend,” he says, and he’s dressed so plainly that she almost doesn’t recognize him. His blond hair is loose over his face.

“Not a word.” She lowers her hand slowly once it becomes apparent they aren’t about to be swarmed by servants. “When you said grant us passage ─”

“I told you,” Zevran says back, “that Howe is not a popular man. The woman I spoke with told me he mistreats his staffing, and he employs wealthy idiots who are more like trussed-up criminals than guardsmen. She was reluctant to act against him, for fear of retribution, but, well … let us say that loyalty is not always bought with coin, hm?”

She suspects that was a lesson Zevran himself had come to learn over the past few months. Unable to stop herself, she points out with amusement, “Didn’t you pay her twenty silvers?”

“Well. Yes. But that’s not the point. The point is,” he’s saying, “is that the servants will not trouble us, so long as we don’t trouble them. They harbor no love for Howe.” One of the undercooks snorts, as though Zevran understated it, yet she doesn’t look up from her task, chopping turnips with precision. “Come. There are several guest rooms I’d imagine we can use for our purposes.”

The retainers hardly spare them a glance as Zevran leads her through the kitchen, laden with savory smells and the sound of boiling stews and wood burning ovens baking pies. The next room is an expansive mess; for the guards, the Warden assumes, but there’s nary a man to be seen. She doesn’t doubt Howe is paranoid enough to utilize all of his sentries, but it seems strange to her nonetheless that they would all be on shift, or that there wouldn’t be at least one who stole away and begged his way into the kitchen for a meat pie.

She tells herself she’s uneasy about the scandal that lies ahead of her, and puts it out of her mind.

They find an unlocked room further down the hall, outfitted with a bed and a vanity and little else. It’s dark within, so Zevran leaves the door cracked so that they might still see. The Warden takes to stripping her armor off as soon as they’re within, and Zevran joins her at her side moments later, helping her to unclasp her leathers. He stashes her pieces within a drawer in the vanity, and tucks her sword and shield underneath the bed.

While he attends to her armor, she pulls Alistair’s rose out of her satchel and sets it aside on the vanity, then finds a thin piece of wire from her traps’ triggers that she sets between her teeth ─ the gown comes flowing out afterwards, and she holds it up to appraise it, silvery in the dark and the moonlight drifting in from the high windows.

“Very nice,” Zevran compliments from behind.

“Thank you. I must admit, I have taste.”

He laughs as he laces her up, firm and practiced, and she settles her vambraces onto her forearms, buckling them just as tight. “Obviously. You and I are friends, are we not?” When he’s finished, he helps her with her spaulders. “Didn’t Leliana prohibit armor? You naughty minx.”

“I represent the Grey Wardens. If it were up to me, I’d come in full plate.” She lowers her arms once she’s set, and Zevran adjusts the fur sewn into the leather inside the spaulders until it lays flat over her back.

“There would definitely be less chance of maiming, certainly.” As he speaks, he links a decorative, metallic article around her waist, and another one further up her ribs. She feels him fluffing out the chiffon flowing over her arms until he’s satisfied with how it sits, and then he’s stepping back and scrutinizing her. It’s dark in the room, but he still says, “You look  _ devastating, _ my friend. Traitor or not, you’ll have numerous bride services by the end of the night, mark my words.” 

She turns to the vanity, and what she can see in her dark reflection does, admittedly, please her. The dress itself is silver and low cut to accentuate the curves of her shoulders and the swell of her breasts, and her short hair compliments the naked arch of her neck. The gown sits snug along her hips and thighs, flaring out just slightly near the floor. Overlaid is blue chiffon, swept out over her sides and held fast to her body with pieces of glinting metal, as though embossed into her dress at the waist and just under her bust. Her bare arms show through the slits in the sheer blue material traveling down the length of them, until the chiffon is swallowed by her vambraces, emulating the lantern sleeves popular in Ferelden’s noble circle. From her spaulders emerge an imposing fur wrap, gray in color, large enough to dip just under her shoulder blades and hike up to her nape. She’s pleased at the threatening silhouette it gives her, and savors the fantasy of Howe’s fright when she appears before him.

“I have rather missed this,” she jokes lightly, brushing down the front of her skirts until everything lays perfectly. Underneath, she still wears her greaves and sabatons, but she contents herself with the knowledge that no one will see. She pulls the wire from her mouth. “Remind me to throw a salon when all of this is over.”

Zevran’s laugh is wry. “Oh? You’ll outdo Howe?” He gestures to her, up and down, and says sweetly, “And you look so exquisite. Could you possibly outdo yourself? What would you wear?”

She turns to face him, shoulders squared, smile broad. “The blood of the archdemon.”

“And nothing else? I do hope you’ll invite me,” he says, between laughter. “Now, come. As much as I enjoy our banter, the night drags on without us.”

As he opens the door, she lifts Alistair’s rose and slinks back to the mirror. Delicately, she tucks it over her ear, winding the wire around the stem and a strand of hair until it rests beside her temple. The Warden whips her head side to side, but the rose stays secure. Her cheeks turn the same color.

Zevran slaps his thigh to get her attention. No more biding for time, now.

He conducts her down the hallway again, and they make their way through a stately room until he ushers her aside. “I’ll distract the guards. You’ll go in as soon as they leave their post.” He takes her hand in both his own. “This ends tonight. Taliesen, the Crows ─ all of it. You’ve helped make this possible, and I … I am indebted to you.”

She grips his fingers, firm. “There is no debt between us,” she rebukes. “There is only friendship.”

Zevran’s grin is blinding. Without another word, he ghosts away from her, his footsteps echoing into the hall. Distantly, his voice calls, frantic, “Guards! Tallis ─ one of the servants ─ just ransacked one of the rooms and made off with valuables! She’s escaping through the gardens! Come, quick!”

She stands with her back against the wall, listening to the thundering of their footsteps as they run by. Once it’s quiet, she peers into the hall.

The Warden takes a moment to brace herself, nervously looking into the splendid lounge just a few yards away. There’s music drifting out, and she can hear the laughter and chattering of peers as they greet each other. She feels a little silly, uneasily watching the glittering of lights from the other room. She’s done this many times, she reminds herself. She’s attended many parties. These sorts of events used to be her life ─ they used to be home.

But she’d be foolish to think she’d be welcome with open arms, considering what beast lay within.

She thumbs at the rose in her hair, and then expels her breath restlessly through her mouth. Once she feels a little more courageous, she hikes her skirts up, like a proper lady. The music almost seems to grow quieter the closer she gets to the open doors, fuzzy and muted under the ringing in her ears.

She releases her skirts, letting them flow out around her feet, and takes one last deep breath, closing her eyes. Schooling her face into icy composure, she straightens up, and enters the room with a poise her father would be proud of.

The guards don’t recognize her right away, and she breezes by them, denying them a glimpse of her face. She stops just as the ballroom begins to swell out, opening into an impressive, spacious stretch of exuberant decorations and lights. In the middle of the room sits a grand staircase, leading up into the personal apartments of the Arl’s estate. The stairwell is flanked by Denerim’s elite; the wealthiest nobles, Banns, and Arls occupy the space, and as she scans the room, she can identify many of them from her years serving the realm with her parents. Leliana is further in, laughing with Arl Bryland while her hand rests on his chest, and Eamon and his guards are hugging a wall and speaking to many a concerned well wisher, shaking hands and making polite small talk about his health, no doubt.

And, at the far back of the lounge, directly opposite her, is Arl Howe. He stands atop the stairwell, fringed with his own personal guard and other wealthy benefactors vying for his attention. He seems disinterested in conversation, but the satisfaction in his smirk while he surveys his kingdom from atop his throne gives the Warden a copper taste in her mouth that she wishes was his blood.

“Arl Howe,” she calls out, voice ringing clear and decisive through the air, “Arl of Amaranthine and newly appointed Arl of Denerim. Such a lovely event you’re hosting tonight, as expected with titles like those; the music is so beautiful, it almost drowns out the sounds of the angry freeholders rioting outside these very doors.”

A tangible confusion crashes over the rabble like a wave from the Storm Coast, and it isn’t until someone says, “Maker’s Breath, it’s Lady Cousland,” that the air charges with tension.

All at once, a hush goes over the crowd. The lively conversation ceases, and the minstrels all stop playing, except for one very enthusiastic lute player, who lags behind by an awkward few seconds. The Warden doesn’t look at anyone ─ she keeps her eyes resolutely fixed on Howe’s face, relishing in the slack-jawed look he’s giving her, and strides forward.

The congregation splits like she’s a force of nature, a tree riven by a war axe and shattering apart in splinters. They move out of her way as she progresses through the room, stopping at the mouth of the stairway; she tilts her chin up, looking down her nose at Howe, even while he stands above her. The awe in the room is palpable, static and unnerving as the concourse looks between the true Teyrn of Highever, and the false sycophant.

The only thing that breaks the trance is the sound of glass shattering against the stone flooring. Everyone turns to look, and one of Arl Eamon’s guards is awkwardly looking down at the glass he’d just dropped, both hands splayed out in abject horror. Dark plum wine pools in the cracks, and the guard inches back towards the wall, clearing his throat and holding a hand up in apology.

_ Alistair, _ she thinks fondly, and she smiles warmly in his direction; a compulsion she’s unable to resist.

“Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim,” Howe says, in that sickening voice of his, “and Teyrn of Highever, mind you.”

She sees red, but it’s too early in the evening to abandon composure, and she can’t shame herself, her family name, nor the Grey Wardens like that. It takes her only a moment to regain her footing, and she curtsies in a flourish. “Truly a decorated man!” she congratulates him, her voice teeming in condescension. “How did you describe it? An embarrassment of riches?”

“You’ve some nerve, making an appearance here.” Howe turns to face her bodily, approaching the edge of the steps. She imagines him falling down the way, until his neck was twisted funny. “I should have you arrested, viper. Perhaps you’d like to spare what little dignity you have left and leave of your own accord? Lest things get … uncivilized.”

“My family was loyal,” she says curtly, “up until their unjust executions. My father sent our army south, at the king’s behest.”

“And yet the king ended up slain,” an unpleasant man she recognizes as Bann Ceorlic pipes in. “An uncanny coincidence.”

She can’t make accusations in the common tongue. Her position would weaken; she knows, already, that her entrance was sardonic enough. She bites her tongue for a moment, filling the silence by turning to face the Bann. “Truly,” she agrees, “considering my castle was left unguarded, and now my army lies dead at the ruins of Ostagar. Were you there, Bann Ceorlic?” He blanches. “I was. And the horrors I saw there are the very same horrors I am sworn to destroy. I serve on behalf of the Grey Wardens  _ and _ on my family’s honor; I would do nothing to endanger the lives of your children and your spouses. Aiding the Blight is antithetical to the oath I’ve made.” She turns her eyes back to Howe. “Even in the face of your slander, I serve Ferelden. My  _ family _ serves Ferelden. A Cousland always does their duty,” she recites, icily, “with justice and temperance.”

“Your tarnished family motto stirs no hearts here,” Howe sneers. “Its words are empty, made such when your father betrayed the crown.”

“It stirs mine,” Arl Bryland says, stepping forwards. Leliana shadows him, just close enough to grab anyone should they try to make a move, but distant enough to seem natural. “I’ve known the Couslands for years,” he tells the room at large, “and they were always loyal to the throne. Bryce was one of the most staunch, dependable men I’ve ever met. I find it hard to believe the Couslands would commit sedition.”

Bann Ceorlic interjects once more. “Do you? Because it’s common knowledge that certain  _ fools _ believed Bryce should have been king. I would wager that empty flattery gave him the idea to usurp the throne.”

The Warden couldn’t quite stop the disgust she wore on her face. “My father was a good man,” she says vehemently, “and a good Teyrn. He was popular because of his commitment to his people. A trait I see Arl Howe doesn’t share.” She struck a hand out, as if cutting the idea down. “Bryce Cousland would never forsake his duty, and his duty was to the throne. His duty was to our teyrnir. He was not a weak man swayed by greed.”

“Your father,” Howe drawls, as though the conversation is boring him, “was a corrupt fool in bed with the Orlesians who desired power more than he desired to serve his family. Your grasp on reality leaves much to be desired, clearly, and I’m not sure if I should pity or condemn your naïveté.”

Her mouth drops, just slightly. “What? How dare you.”

“Your father made  _ no _ secret of his venal trips overseas. In fact, I remember him boasting about the gifts he’d received from marquis and their whore wives on several occasions.” Howe made a show of brushing down the silky material of his elaborate coat. “It seems clear to me that he was betraying Ferelden for Orlais. A cunning duplicity from a rather simpleminded deceiver.”

She can’t help herself; she bursts out, “My father fought the Orlesians  _ with you,  _ Howe! He stayed beside you for months when you were wounded. Not only was he your closest friend, but he was critical in our liberation from Orlais’ brutal reign. How could you think he would ever give Ferelden up to Orlais?” Finally, she can’t curb her tongue. “My father was not a man so predatory as to come into possession of three land holdings in such a short span of time.”

“Oho!” Howe claps his hands together. “Truly the demeanor of the innocent. Your baseless accusations don’t help your cause, you declining dog-lord. Slander from the tongue of Bryce’s little spitfire! Color me surprised.”

“Your seat on the arling of Denerim is disputed,” a noble the Warden doesn’t recognize suddenly speaks. She steps forward. “You must admit it is most fortuitous, Arl Howe, to have come into claim of these rulings. Is there no proof we might see, from either of you?”

“Nonsense,” Bann Ceorlic says dismissively. “I’d do well to remind you that this is  _ Teyrn _ Howe’s estate and his wine that you’re helping yourself to. He owes nothing. Regardless of Lady Cousland’s crimes, she can’t eschew consequences for presenting herself, uninvited and unannounced, and then disrespecting the man under his own roof.” The Warden thinks violence at him, very hard, and hopes he explodes from the intensity.

Arl Bryland takes a stand beside the Warden. “Would you remain silent if it were you, Bann Ceorlic? Standing in her place, listening to your family name be defamed, when you believe in their innocence?”

Ceorlic turns white. “That … is hardly the point. There’s a time and a place.”

“There is  _ always _ time for justice,” another noble calls out.

Discontent, a new voice says, “There  _ was _ justice: the traitors lie dead. We must not forget that the Grey Wardens killed King Cailan.”

“Why would they do that?” a woman the Warden recognizes as Bann Alfstanna says. “The Grey Warden’s entire purpose is to defeat the darkspawn armies. Why weaken the country in the midst of a Blight? My bannorn is overflowing with refugees. I have difficulty imagining that the Grey Wardens would abet the very evil they’re sworn to destroy.”

Bolstered, the Warden turns her back to Howe, and addresses the congregation as a whole. “I have forfeited my title. If my family name were absolved tomorrow, I would still be a Grey Warden; I would not return to Highever and retire. I serve, tirelessly, on behalf of all Thedas, and I will for as long as I live.” Suddenly, Zevran catches her eye from across the way. He has a tray lined with champagne flutes, and he’s walking purposefully towards Arl Eamon, eyes locked on hers. She receives the message. “All I ask, my lords and ladies,” she says humbly, curtsying so low she almost sways, “is that you permit me one evening of conversation, so that I might share with you my account. I beg you. Allow me to speak with you, and then hear my plea at the Landsmeet, where I will accept official judgment no matter the ruling.”

“Let her stay,” Arl Bryland demands, and a select few voices echo his words. “You would not turn Lady Cousland out on such an impassioned plea, would you, Howe? Have you no mercy?”

Howe jerks a hand up, ceasing conversation. The Warden looks at him from over her shoulder. “Enough. All this squabble defeats the purpose of hosting a salon.” He lowers his arm. “Well, well. The little spitfire, youngest and most spoiled daughter of Ferelden’s wealthiest and most conniving noble families, begging on her knees. How the mighty crumble.” She clenches her teeth, hoping for just one more plunge of the knife, and dreading it all at once.  _ Let everyone see you for the rat you are, _ she thinks.

“Very well,” he says, smugly. “I see no reason to turn you away. All will see you for the traitorous bitch you are at the Landsmeet.” He turns to the minstrels, waving his hand in exaggeration. “Play again! In fact, why not play  _ the Soldier and the Seawolf?” _

The air feels struck out of the Warden. Her knees practically buckle, but, through rage alone, she stays steady. With that, Howe turns and departs up the stairs, presumably to his chambers. The music starts in full swing, lively and humorous, and the ballroom reluctantly and slowly fills with chatter again, but her ears are ringing, and everything sounds muffled and disoriented.

Arl Bryland’s hand is on her shoulder, gentle, and she gives him a tense curtsy and politely excuses herself for a moment. He retreats into the assemblage of nobles while the Warden makes her way over to Eamon. There’s no wine on the floor ─ she feels badly for the servant who had to clean up  _ that _ mess while listening to the verbal spar.

She falls into place beside the Arl, hands clasped behind herself and chin raised high to at least attempt to look equanimitous. Eamon doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but he says, gently, “You did fine, Warden. I ─ I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she deflects frigidly, though she hangs on every word of the song and thinks of the story her father would tell: he’d warbled it to her mother, but he’d only sang a verse or two before Eleanor had agreed to marry him, and they’d laugh and laugh whenever he’d tell the tale. The memory of it makes her eyes grow wet with fury, with grief, with helplessness.

She feels something leather and warm slide against her hand, and when she spreads her fingers, another set slots between them. Alistair, firm, presses up so close behind her that she can feel the metal of his chestplate pressing into her fur wrap.

“Are you all right?” he asks, quiet and low. She bites on the inside of her cheek, pursing her mouth, and nods her head once, short.

Zevran’s at her side a moment later. “My lady,” he says, offering her a flute. “Really, you need it after that,” he insists, when she shakes her head. Laughing a little, she takes one, delicately sipping at the bubbles within. Zevran watches the crowd, then asks, “What is this song?”

She drains the glass in one pull, and sets it back on the tray. “Sorry,” she says, plucking another champagne flute up before she answers, “it’s … about my parents’ first meeting. It went so terribly, my mother’s sailors wrote a shanty to memorialize the occasion. Afterwards, my parents went on to destroy at least a dozen warships in the Battle of Denerim Harbor together. They married later.”

Alistair’s fingers squeeze her hand.

“I see,” Zevran says slowly. “What a horrid little man.”

Her voice is grave. “I agree.” Then she drains the second glass. “What did you find? You had a look about you a minute ago.”

“Ah, yes, about that.” Zevran grins at her, all charm. “I’ve seen nothing suspicious in my round about the house,  _ but  _ I may have something to make your night much better. Why don’t you, ah, mingle. Watch the hallway. When you see me, follow me back to the room we changed in.”

She sets the glass down on his tray. “Watch the hallway. Got it.”

“You’re not gonna offer me champagne?” Alistair chimes in.

“No. Goodbye.”

Zevran departs as smoothly as he came, ducking away from nobles and pretending not to see them reaching for a glass, until he disappears beyond the threshold.

Alistair’s hand is solid and warm in her own, hidden behind her back, and she squeezes it in gratitude. “Thank you,” she says, quietly, half-turning her head so he might hear her better.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I wanted to kill him for speaking to you like that,” he admits, thumb sweeping over the arch of her knuckles, “but I figured you’d want the honor.”

She laughs, and leans her weight into him ─ he stays steadfast, as though he expected it, and bears the weight of her easily. “I’m going to cut his throat,” she agrees, “though I do find the idea of you dueling for my honor … thrilling.” His other hand is heavy on her wrist, obscured by her body. “But duty takes precedence, even over vengeance,” she reminds herself. “Has the Arl had any trouble?”

“Not that we could see. He looks sort of miserable, truthfully. I don’t think he wants to be here either,” Alistair tells her. “Leliana’s been watching him all night. You should have seen her earlier. She had a gaggle of enchanted nobles all around her. They adore her. It’s like she’s cursed them or something. Creepy.” 

The Warden laughs. “Creepy and good for us. Perhaps this Landsmeet will be painless after all.”

“For you, maybe. You won’t be king.” His tone is playful, hushed against the metal of his helmet. “Honestly, though, if Leliana continues the way she is, she’ll end up Queen of Ferelden.” A pause. “That’s not a half bad ─”

She elbows him. He wheezes out a laugh.

Turning her face back to the salon, she sees Arl Bryland watching her. The music has transitioned from the lively shanty, and a stately dancing song plays instead. Several nobles pair off. She extracts her fingers from Alistair’s carefully. “I’ll be back. I’m going to speak with Arl Bryland,” she tells him and Eamon. Drifting away from them, she turns her body to meet Eamon’s eyes, “Perhaps he knows something we could use against Howe; if not, it doesn’t hurt to simply build a friendship.”

Eamon nods his approval. “We’ll be here.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Alistair chirps, saluting her with two fingers.

The Warden shakes her head in amusement, and then ducks into the fray.  



	4. chapter four

Arl Bryland is all etiquette when she approaches him; he meets her halfway, on the dance floor, and he sweeps into a bow. When he straightens, he offers her a hand. “May I have a dance, Lady Cousland?”

“Of course, my lord,” she permits, sliding her own hand into his. She sidles up to him and he places a hand decorously on her waist. “In return, may I be blunt with you?” His shoulder is relaxed under her palm.

He pulls her into the sway, and they bob and weave within the collection of dancers. “An unusual request, but one I’m happy to oblige.”

She spares a glance towards the stairwell; Howe is back again, discussing with a different entourage of nobles, including Bann Ceorlic. Paranoia tugs at the back of her mind, a feeling so similar to sensing darkspawn that she almost dives for Alistair’s sword. She manages not to, turning her eyes back to Bryland’s face. “Why have you come here tonight?”

He laughs. “Yes, I suppose that’s a justified question.” They turn, slow, with practiced ease. “Howe’s made it clear that I’m not exactly welcome. Truthfully, I’m in Denerim solely for the Landsmeet, but I’m accompanied by,” he draws in a breath, and releases it heavy and tense, “my daughter, Habren. You may recall her.”

Ah, yes. Habren. A horrid little girl. She’d only been a child when the Warden saw her last, but she’d thrown tantrum after tantrum, and she’d yanked savagely on Hohaku’s ears when he’d approached her. She smiles politely, if not a little curt. “Of course. I’m sure she’s as beautiful as her mother, these days.”

“Your manners are remarkable,” Bryland comments dryly. “She’s driving me mad, my daughter. I wasn’t planning on attending, but,” he spins her, ceasing their movements so she might see the girl in question, “Habren insisted.” His daughter is dancing with a gallant young man about her age, cheeks as ruddy as her hair. They spin by, bright-eyed and youthful in their energy, and the Warden can’t help but feel wistful. She’s only five years older, give or take, than Bryland’s daughter, but she feels aged beyond her years. Those times of her life, childhood rife with dancing and laughter and music, seemed to be over. 

“She’s having fun, at least,” the Warden offers, as Bryland leads her into the waltz again

“True enough, and it keeps her from spending every lost sovereign from our coffers.” The Warden hums her amusement. “If I may,” he continues, “you’re looking as beautiful as your mother tonight as well. Strange to see you now, like this, when I recall so fondly the little girl covered in mud, wielding a wooden sword.” He laughs as he says it.

The Warden grins at him, and makes a valiant attempt to not get misty eyed. “You were always good to my family. Thank you, my lord.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Your family was always good to mine; even my daughter, and I know she’s quite the handful.” They laugh together, and he trails off into a fond hum. “Ah, but I love her dearly. I can never say no to her.”

She suddenly feels small, and she misses her own father, so much that it stings. She opts to change the subject. “As I recall it,” she continues, “you, my father, and Howe were very close, back when Orlais reigned.” She lowers her voice. “What’s happened? Why the distrust towards your brother-by-marriage?”

Bryland’s fingers twitch in her hand. His jaw is set, and he looks past her eyes towards the wall. “Funny you should mention,” he says, steely, “as it was his betrothal to my sister that secured my dislike. Something about him had changed, after the rebellion, after White River. He seemed fine when we stayed with him while he recovered, but your father and I were eventually called back. When we returned, he was like a different man. I don’t know if his pride was wounded, but he was abrasive, and impatient. My sister, for _whatever_ reason, was taken with him. I tried to reason with her, but when I attempted to stop the wedding itself, Howe told me he needed her for her dowry. He told me such! The gall ─ I nearly struck him dead, then and there. My own sister!” He dipped her low, eyes bright with anger. “I haven’t spoken to him since.”

The Warden looks at him in sympathy as he lifts her up. “Did my parents know? I’m aware they attended the vows.” 

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I know I told them I disapproved, but I can’t recall if I ever told them why.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I wonder if they would have cast him out as I did if I had, and if they would …” He purses his mouth. “Forgive me, Lady Cousland.”

She feels for him. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she says. “That they didn’t see who Howe truly was is no one’s fault.” Bryland’s face softens. “There’s … no sense lingering over what-could-have-beens, anyhow. What’s done is done.” She’d thought, many times over the course of their travels, what she could have done differently; if she could have changed fate, or redirected it. “I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless, my lord, as much as I appreciate you speaking in my defense.” As she says it, she glances to the hallway; Zevran is not there.

He inclines his head, courteously. “Of course. I mourn for your family, as well. They were good people; loyal and noble countrymen. When I’d heard, I knew ─” he corrects himself, “─ I _suspected_ that there was foul play.”

She tightens her hand against his, pulling herself closer and dropping her voice low, “Then you understand my drive for retribution. Our Protector of the Realm and Howe are colluding; even if Loghain were not involved in my family’s annihilation, I cannot touch Howe so long as the Regent reigns. Can I depend on you to pledge your name, your land, to the rightful king, Alistair?”

“Of course. Unequivocally,” Bryland says resolutely. “Were your family alive and well, my answer would not change. Theirin blood should remain on the throne.” As the music draws to an end, their dance slows. “And I don’t believe Ostagar was lost, like many others of our fellows do. Take heart; many of us will stand with you and your cause. Not just in royalty, but in war. The Blight must end.”

He separates from her, bowing. She curtsies in tandem. “Thank you for the dance, Arl Bryland,” she says, “and for the enlightening conversation. I sincerely hope we meet again.”

“As do I, Lady Cousland,” he says, sadly, “as do I.”

She watches him submerge back into the stragglers, those uninterested or unwilling to dance. Leliana is entertaining several noble ladies, all of whom do seem particularly beguiled by her. She smiles as she watches, coasting towards Arl Eamon, but she runs bodily into someone’s chest before she can make it.

Mortified, she steps back with a hand raised in pacification, apologies poised on her tongue, but it’s one of Eamon’s guards. He catches her hand out of the air, hand on her waist as he drags her back to the floor, all in a matter of seconds. She’s smiling wide as he does, because she knows it’s Alistair.

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten my promise, did you?” he prompts, playful.

“Ser knight,” she teases, sliding her hand up his shoulder, the pauldron cool beneath her fingers, “but there will be a scandal. What will the court say when they see Lady Cousland dancing with a man who possesses no title and no land?”

The music that starts up is a little more lively, and Alistair guides her into a bouncy waltz. “Let them talk,” he says boisterously. Then, quieter, he says, “And, well, if it helps, I’m a prince. I’ll have any rumormongers executed.”

The laugh that escapes her is giddy and pitched, and Alistair echoes the sound, twirling her away from him in a wider arc than what would be proper in polite society, joined together by only their outstretched hands. When he pulls her back, she melts against him while they sweep around the floor.

“I wanted to say,” he starts, and then he trails off. “That is, well, I wanted to,” he clears his throat, adjusting his hand on her waist. “I wanted to say that you look …” She wishes she could see his face; all she can look at is the helmet, expressionless and glossy with lacquer. “You look very nice,” he finishes lamely.

She’s a little disappointed, she can’t lie. A compliment is a compliment, however, and she looks up at him through her lashes, smiling. “Thank you, Alistair. Wasn’t that you, dropping the wine?”

He splutters. “What? No. I don’t know what you were talking about. If someone _had_ dropped wine, it was only because he was holding it for the Arl, very selflessly might I add.” In his fluster, he steps on her toes, and he hops back on one foot when she squeaks. “Oh! Maker!” She’s laughing again, their dance disrupted and paused. “Andraste’s flames, I’m bad at this. I told you I would step on you.”

She pulls him in again, her hand on his nape rather than his shoulder. “I don’t mind,” she says, thumbing at the soft press of his jaw, just under the lip of the helmet; she can feel his pulse fluttering, fast like a rabbit, and his hand slides along the curve of her back, holding her to him.

“You’re wearing my rose,” he notes, pulling her back into rhythm, their pace more somber now.

The Warden grins. “Isn’t it my rose? Or did you just lend it to me?” she teases. She turns her head, to let him see the bloom in her dark hair. At the same time, she checks the hall. Nothing. “It was a thoughtful gift.”

“What can I say? I’m a thoughtful man.”

She laughs as she tilts her head back, nodding her agreement to him. “I only hope I’m worthy of it,” she confesses. “When you told me what it meant to you ─”

“What you mean to me.” His voice is urgent and genuine.

Normally she considers herself to have a certain collectedness, composed and in control even in the face of blood mages, or the undead, or the Blight. But Alistair’s sincerity makes her cheeks flush, and she finds herself unable to look at the helmet, even though she can’t see his eyes. “I think the same of you.” His hand moves from her own hand, to the back of her neck, sturdy and firm in how he grips it. “What a wonderful thing you are ─”

The words blow out of her as he tilts her back, and it doesn’t occur to her to catch herself or brace. She falls, willing, and Alistair holds her in a dip that has her swooning, though she’d never admit it. She clutches at his shoulders, bulky and unwieldy under her naked hands, and half-blinks up at him, eyelashes fluttering. More than anything, she wishes she could see his face.

He pulls her back up a moment later, close enough to him that her chin is practically resting on his shoulder. “Zevran’s at the doorway,” he says, quietly.

She curses Zevran’s timing, her breath feeling stolen out of her. Reluctantly, she draws away from her dance partner, though their hands stay linked for much longer than would be appropriate in normal circumstances. “Ser knight,” she requests with a curtsy, a little louder than normal speaking volume, “might you escort me to the powder room?” When she glances at the door, no one’s there.

He bows in return, and offers her an arm. She claims it, and he guides her over the floor and out into the corridor. As soon as she feels they’re out of sight, she takes point, leading Alistair towards the room they’d been in before. It’s cracked, and she distinctly remembers Zevran saying passage was safe if the door was open.

When they approach the wooden frame, she whispers, “It’s us, Zev,” and then pushes the door inwards. They crowd into the chamber, a little cramped with all three of them standing inside, and Zevran closes the door with a decisive click, quiet as he can.

“I have news,” he says, hushed. “I’ve spoken to many servants over the course of the night, thus far. As I’ve said, they find Howe to be cruel and stupid, and they’ve no love for him. Pity, that. He seems such a kind man.” The Warden rolls her eyes. “But that’s not the best part, though I’m sure you’d love to hear all the juicy gossip I’ve been privy to tonight. In fact, there was a rather juicy story involving lyrium dust and ─ ah, remind me to tell you later.” He waves his hand, dismissing the subject. “As I hear it, the servants have noted that Howe appears to have … distinguished guests, residing within his dungeons. Perhaps not entirely lawfully. Guests who, according to them, may have influence and coin to give to any merciful Grey Wardens who might free them. It might be a worthwhile venture.”

He turns his back to Alistair and the Warden, pulling a handful of sheets from off the vanity, and waving them in the air as he faces them again. “That’s not all.” He hands the papers over, and Alistair eases closer to look over her shoulder at the pages. It’s difficult to make out, but when she squints down at the words, she can see ─

“No way,” Alistair crows, in pure delight. “Embarrassing steamy letters. I was joking about that, you know. Yet here they are!”

The Warden scans over the page. “From a Lady Sophie.” She grins at Zevran, smacking the papers with the back of her hand. “Where’d you get these?”

Zevran’s pulling her satchel out from under the vanity, holding it open for her; she deposits the papers within. “I’ve found his office, under lock and key. There was very little else of interest, sad to say. I cannot say whether he keeps his mistress’ letters out of affection or otherwise, but here they are nonetheless. Unfortunately, many noble men sleep around, so I doubt this is enough to do more than damage his reputation.”

The Warden hums in disapproval, frustrated. Zevran smirks at her.

“That’s why I have _more.”_

“Andraste’s ass, you’re scary,” Alistair comments.

“Thank you, my handsome friend!” Zevran seats himself on the bed. “I’ve heard talk that Howe’s treasury in Highever is being prepared for a large shipment. Apparently, the man’s come into possession of a sizable quantity of silver. Perhaps even gold. His retainers heard him barking orders at the guards he’s entrusted his funds’ safekeeping to. I’m not entirely sure where he’s holding this treasure, as I’ve not found anything yet, but it’s something to consider, especially when we ponder where he’s gotten these bars from.” 

Alistair says, “Nowhere good or lawful, I bet.”

“Clever boy,” Zevran remarks.

“Thank you.”

“Do you have any idea where we might find out?” the Warden asks. Zevran opens his mouth. “That doesn’t involve torturing the guards?” He closes his mouth. “Worth a shot to ask. If we could source where he’s getting this currency … it would be helpful.”

“Of course,” Zevran agrees. “I will keep an ear open. I’d put money on those dungeons, myself ─ the servants say they’re well used. Very fun. They often go in to clean up the blood. Whoever’s down there, whatever’s going on, if we expose his cruelty, we’ll be in a strong position.” He rubs at his chin. “I’ve seen no one suspicious, however. No gear, no traps, nothing. Not within the castle, at least. If there are assassins here, they’re either outside, packed light, or not yet arrived.”

“Or right in front of us,” Alistair reminds them.

Zevran grins at him. “You’re astute tonight, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Right,” the Warden interjects, “we’re making progress, I’d say. There’s potential here. We’ll have to discuss the dungeons with Arl Eamon ─ were it up to me, we’d go in right now, but I don’t suppose the law would be on our side should we lead an assault on the cells.”

“Probably not.” Alistair beckons to the door. “Shall we, then?”

She nods, and Alistair cautiously peels the door open, slowly. “Thank you, Zevran. Should you need anything, I’ll be watching the hall ─”

Alistair suddenly closes the door. “Um.”

“Oh no,” Zevran says, jumping to his feet.

“Someone’s coming,” Alistair hisses, a little frantic. “And he definitely just saw me close this door.” 

The Warden puts a hand over her face. “Maker’s breath.”

At the same time, Zevran plasters himself against the wall, just beside the door. “Distract him!”

“You do it!” Alistair hisses.

“He saw _you!”_ Zevran shoots back.

Alistair throws his hands up, clearly unsure of what constitutes a distraction in a guest chamber with a vanity and a bed and nothing else. Zevran’s already occupying the only space someone could possibly hide in, tight in the corner, and he would be obstructed by the door when it opened.

The Warden yanks the chair out from where it was set at the vanity, hoisting herself up onto the surface of it; the wood creaks under her weight, and she starts hiking her skirts up the length of her body. “Come here, Alistair.”

“Oh _no,”_ Alistair echoes emphatically. 

“Oh. Yes,” Zevran says, speaking over him.

She must look offended, because Alistair immediately slinks closer, palms facing her in surrender; she can hear footsteps outside the door, fast approaching.

“I didn’t mean it like _that,”_ Alistair insists in a whisper, and he awkwardly fits himself between her legs, boxing her in against the mirror. Were it sincere, the way his hands slide along her thighs would have been exciting, and she tries not to blush when he spreads them apart. She urges his head to her throat, the metal of his armor chilly against the underside of her arm at the same time, and the door’s knob is turning. Her other hand finds purchase on the edge of the vanity, leveraging herself further against Alistar just as the door swings open, and Alistair’s hands freeze from where he’s helping support her weight.

Light floods into the room, and she knows they must make quite a sight; a guard bent over a lady, her gown dragged up to her stomach, bare legs resting over her apparent lover’s hips. Better this, than to be caught conspiring against the unhinged man who killed her family. Poor Alistair’s tense above her, reluctant in how he leans back enough to look at the intruder through his helmet’s ocularium.

“Well,” a guard chastises, adorned with the crest of Amaranthine, “what do we have here? Got bored of the party, did we?” He’s a stark silhouette against the light, and the Warden’s squinting to make out his face.

“Er,” Alistair answers, his hands still compromisingly slipped up under the Warden’s skirts.

“Is that Lady Cousland?” Howe’s guard asks suddenly, voice broad with the thrill of catching his house’s mortal enemy in such a state. “Andraste’s tits, it is, isn’t it?”

She breathes in silently through her nose. “Yes. How do you do.”

“Never better,” the guard answers snobbily, alight with meanspirited glee. Zevran is sequestered just behind the door, opposite of the guard, and he’s making faces at the Warden that she’s trying to ignore. “Don’t tell me, I’ve got it. This is your way of buying fresh new blood, innit?”

Alistair speaks before she can. “Pardon?” he asks, voice hard.

“Well, it’s not like the Couslands have any copper left, right? Nor any merit.” The guard crosses his arms, grinning down at the pair of them. “What, you’re gonna work your way through the entire force here, ‘til you’ve got an army again?”

“Watch your mouth,” Alistair barks, jerking himself towards the watch; the Warden catches his gloved hand, carefully protecting her modesty with the other. He doesn’t yank himself away, at least, but he angles himself threateningly enough toward Howe’s security. Zevran is motioning for him to stand down.

With her eyes adjusted to the light, she can see the man rolling his own, and he claps his hands in applause sarcastically. “Lady Cousland, you sly dog,” he mocks, “haven’t even let him get his breeches down, yet he’s already loyal to a fault. Never let it be said that a wounded bitch can’t still bite.”

“Yes, well,” she replies, before Alistair can run the man through with his sword, “I suppose you’re here to tell us not to wander.”

“Very clever.” He stands aside, beckoning for them to leave. “Nice of you as it was to make yourself at home, out. Now. And stay in the ballroom, or we’ll make you a much more permanent resident of Teyrn Howe’s estate. No more skulking around.”

Demurely, the Warden fixes her skirts, flushed with anger, and then warily slides off the vanity to her feet. “How quaint,” she says snidely, taking the moment to touch her hair up and shoot Zevran a steely glance. He meets her eyes with silent understanding and a colorful smile. “Come, ser. Let us be off to Howe’s sad little salon before he misses my attention.” She brushes past the guard, and Alistair follows after her dutifully.

Howe’s guard keeps a few paces behind them, but he trails along the gallery, ensuring they make their way back to the designated area with no distraction and no more trouble. Alistair is seething, she can tell, and she’s almost surprised that steam isn’t escaping in little wisps from the slots in his helmet. He doesn’t say anything, however, and as the Warden looks back, she can see that the heavy wooden door to the guest room is still ajar.

When they reach the threshold, the sentry taunts, “Enjoy the rest of the salon, my Lady. Or enjoy the rest of the guard, I should say.”

“Curb your tongue,” she spits back, and the guard laughs in her face while he traipses back down the hall. She watches, thrumming with anticipation, and Alistair looks from her to the hallway.

When Howe’s sentinel reaches the open door, the Warden sees Zevran lunge out from the dark, hand clapping over the man’s mouth as he wrenches him inside, and the door shuts with decisive finality. She should pity him, but a sick satisfaction cools her face into indifference, looking down her nose at the door. Primly, she turns back to the parlor entryway, sliding her hands against Alistair’s arm.

“Did you just have him assassinated?” he asks incredulously.

“I did no such thing. Zevran’s simply going to find out where that silver is coming from.” Her voice is haughty even to her own ears, and she clears her throat, flustered. 

Alistair, to his credit, simply pats her hand. “All the same to me,” he admits, and he escorts her into the brightly lit ballroom. “I can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind.”

“They’ll say much the same about you,” she reminds him. “At the Landsmeet.” She catches Eamon’s gaze, and she gives him a nod to signify their welfare.

“I don’t care what they’ll say about _me.”_

The Warden smiles up at him. “I do.”

He’s uncharacteristically silent. The Warden meets Leliana’s eyes next, and the air around her is purposeful. Alistair speaks before she can break from him to meet the bard. “When I said ─ when I said no, back there, I didn’t really mean …” She snorts. “I’m serious! I mean, obviously you’re very pretty, especially tonight; you look ─ good. You look good.” His arm’s tense under her hands.

She bites her lip to try and fight the smile she can feel growing. “I know, Alistair. No offense taken.” And, just to punish him a little, she says sweetly, “You’re welcome to an encore later, if you’d like.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d said something like that to him: when he’d given her the rose, asked to skip to the steamy bits, she had called his bluff and demanded he rid himself of his armor. He’d turned red down to his collar, perhaps even lower; yet the way he reacted was almost as though every other time was the first time. Even now, she could hear him choking underneath his armor, and she could imagine the tint of his cheeks with perfect clarity.

“You’re wicked,” he apprises her, “you’re a bad person.”

“Only because you make it so easy to be.” She lets him go. “I’m going to speak with Leliana. I trust you won’t drop any more wine while I’m not looking?”

“You have my very solemn oath that I will only drop wine when you _are_ looking.” 

The Warden grins at him, rolling her eyes. “How considerate of you. Play nice with Zevran, should he need any help.”

“All right, but if he asks me to get a tattoo on my face and talk in an Antivan accent, I’m saying no.”

“Pity.” They drift apart, and she watches affectionately as he eases into his place besides Arl Eamon again.

Leliana and Arl Bryland are engaged in lively conversation when she approaches, and the man actually looks to be enjoying himself. Leliana _was_ a pleasant conversation partner, of course, so that came as no surprise to the Warden.

“... And that is why the shoes at Orlesian galas aren’t to be over five inches, at least when spirits are being served,” Leliana is telling him, and she graces the Warden with a smile when she stands beside them.

“Fascinating!” Arl Bryland says. “And very terrifying.”

“Oh, it was quite a sight to watch,” Leliana agrees, “but I can’t imagine how hard it was to scrub the blood from that dress. They must have disposed of it instead; such a shame, because it was very beautiful.” She offers the Arl her hand, and he gladly takes it. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord. I’d like to have a word with my friend.”

“Of course,” he says, stooping to kiss her politely over the knuckles. “Ferelden is lucky to have you, my lady. I do hope you’ll grace me with another conversation, before the salon ends.”

Leliana curtsies, beaming. They weave their way through the crowd, to the open doors leading into the courtyard. There are a few stragglers sitting in the fresh evening air, but the area is mostly empty. One of the nobles looks exceptionally drunk, and another patrician is carefully rubbing his shoulders as he babbles and laughs manically.

“He seems awfully taken with you,” the Warden comments, as they make their way into the gardens. “Then again, the whole party seemed to be. It’s plain to see why, however. You look beautiful.”

Leliana giggles, girlish. “Thank you! As do you. As for the nobles … No offense, but Ferelden politics aren’t quite as complicated ─ or dangerous ─ as Orlais tends to be. It’s a refreshing change of pace; Fereldens are headstrong, but honest and forthright and earnest. I don’t want to imply you’re an easily manipulated people, but for a bard, it’s a simple enough task to be subtle. Truthfully,” she glances over his shoulder, as drunken peals of snickers escape the man in the distance, “it’s a much simpler task when our fellows have been drinking. That, and many of these people are discontent.”

The Warden cocks a brow. “Are they?”

“Of course. You don’t need me to tell you; the civil war is proof enough of that. I’ve spoken to many nobles this evening who doubt the authenticity of Loghain’s story; they love the man himself, but they had much love for King Cailan as well. The Landsmeet will be an interesting affair, I imagine.” She pauses, hand on the Warden’s forearm. They’re a good distance away from most of the attendees. “But that’s not why I called you out here, as exciting as politics are. I’ve heard a rumor that is … concerning.”

“Let’s hear it,” the Warden says.

“Do you know Bann Sighard, of Dragon’s peak? His son, a lord Oswyn, has said that he’d been told a terrible secret from one of his closest friends, about what occurred at Ostagar; when he told his peers he was planning on investigating, he suddenly cut off all contact. No one has seen or heard from him since. Much of it is speculation, but it is rather curious he’s disappeared after perhaps uncovering something, yes? It is something to keep in mind.”

The Warden crosses her arms, nodding her head as Leliana speaks. “Most curious,” she agrees. “If his … absence … is related to what happened at Ostagar, then there’s no doubt that Loghain or Howe are behind it.” Suddenly, a thought occurs to her. “Zevran just informed me that, according to the servants, there are men being held within the dungeons.”

Leliana’s red brow cocks. “You don’t think ...?”

“I’m not saying anything definitively,” the Warden concedes, “but there’s a possibility. Alistair might be talking with Arl Eamon about seizing the dungeons, but I doubt it’ll come to fruition tonight. Bann Sighard would certainly be convinced to support our king, should we find his son.”

“I agree.” Leliana fluffs her skirts out, brushing the fabric out. “But we’re in a strong position, I’m happy to report. Many of the highborn attending this salon aren’t committed to Loghain. Once we present our appeal, we _will_ have support.” Strangely, she hesitates, toying with her ring finger nervously. “I have not seen Howe since earlier,” she finally discloses. “Once you left with Zevran, he quit the field. I have a bad feeling about this.” The look on her face is earnest. “I’m sorry, my friend. I fear you may be in danger after all.”

“There was always the possibility this was a trap,” the Warden says. “We expected this might go awry. Perhaps he’s simply gotten bored of playing the agreeable host. If not, we’re prepared as we can be.” She claps a hand onto Leliana’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “Besides, if I’m in danger, so are you. We’ll call it fair.”

Leliana laughs, a bright sound that calms the Warden’s nerves. “True enough.” She straightens herself out, with renewed resolve. “Right. I suppose we should return, before the Arl winds up dead.”

“Alistair’s watching him, I’m sure.”

“He is _now,”_ Leliana says, with a knowing grin, “but he was watching _you_ earlier.”

The Warden tries not to smile back, but she can feel her mouth twitching. “Is that so?”

Leliana paws at her, playfully. “As though you don’t know! He was so stunned when you walked in. I just know he was gaping. He dropped all that wine and made a fool of himself! Really, it’s almost sort of pathetic how taken he is with you. I don’t know why _you_ haven’t taken him to ─”

The Warden chokes, masking it by coughing into her hand. “I, ah, well. You know he was rather sheltered. I don’t want to rush him into anything.”

Leliana rolls her eyes. “You two are painful to watch sometimes, truly. I’ve never seen a pair adore each other quite the way you both so obviously do, but not act on it.” 

“Well, he’s to be king soon ─ it’s a little more complicated than it was before,” the Warden admits. “But I am … very fond of him.”

“We’re all very aware. He was asking me how to woo you the other day, you know. Not in so many words, and it was painful for all of us, but he’s very serious about impressing you. I wouldn’t worry about his being king; I think he would sooner make you queen than let it come between you.” The Warden felt her cheeks light up, hot, and Leliana’s grin is downright smug. “Oh, you’re blushing. How cute. Shall I give you a moment to cool down?”

 _“Please,”_ the Warden says, unable to stop her broad smile, and Leliana laughs loud and unrestrained. “Maker, my heart can’t take this sort of talk unprepared.”

Leliana’s laughter grows distant with her, and the Warden watches her disappear back into the lounge. She integrates easily into the congregation, and the Warden notes, fondly, how much she looks like she belongs.

She finds a stone bench to seat herself on, and she takes the moment to breathe in the cool, fresh evening air. It smells like roses and dew, and for a moment, she feels calmer. When her cheeks have dimmed from burning to warm, she gets to her feet and begins the brief trek back towards the salon.

“Warden,” someone calls, low and hushed, from within a corridor made of greenery. She pauses, turning her head to look within the row of hedges.

Taliesen stands there, clad in his Crow leathers, hidden in the dim of the gardens. Instantly, she’s on edge again, and she spares a look over her shoulder towards the salon. Zevran isn’t there, nor Leliana. When she turns back, Taliesen has approached, just slightly.

“I have him,” he says, quietly. “Your assassin. The one targeting this Arl Bryland.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Do you, now?”

“I do. I thought I might … prove to Zevran, that I meant what I said. I realize now that my help could be ─ and was, clearly ─ invaluable.” He doesn’t seem particularly nervous, his body language casual and relaxed. “The Crows don’t trust Zevran, but I’ve not betrayed them ─ not that they know of, yet, and I do plan on keeping it that way. The assassin didn’t bother hiding from me. An easy enough undertaking, to lure him out. I’ve trapped your man in a section of the gardens nearby, in some of the grasses. Very pleasant to admire, by the way, these gardens are _lovely.”_

“Aren’t they.” The Warden doesn’t look away, even though the urge to check for Zevran again is insistent at the back of her mind. “You left him alive? Why?”

Taliesen cocks his head. “Should I not have? I assumed you would want him yet breathing. To hear for yourself that he was hired by this Lord Regent.” He jerks both hands up in a shrug, easy and loose. “Perhaps to have him testify in your Landsmeet, as it were.”

She narrows her eyes. “Yes, you have a point,” she says agreeably, to mask her suspicion. She didn’t trust this, or him, in the slightest; but as she looks him up and down, she remembers Zevran saying he _wanted_ to believe Taliesen. Thawing just slightly, she asks, “So you’ve come to fetch me and bring me to him?”

Taliesen points at her. “Clever girl.”

“Let me just get Zevran ─”

“With all due respect, my lady, going inside the salon and gathering your accomplices would look,” he hesitates, wiggling his hand and then dropping it, “very odd, indeed. It was just the one assassin. You and I will be fine.”

The Warden feels all too familiar paranoia creep up the back of her neck, suddenly hyper aware of her surroundings. It was quiet outside; even the drunken man was gone, but the music from inside was vibrant and loud, and the voices pouring out were undisturbed. “Want me alone, Taliesen?”

His teeth are white in the dim. “You’ve no reason to trust me. I respect that. Fortunately for you, I’m here for Zevran, and Zevran is … soft on you. You’ve nothing to fear from me, but have it your way.” The Warden almost turns and marches back to the salon, but Taliesen continues. “But Howe is apprehensive as well. Your Arl was meant to be dead by now. I saw him in his chambers. He’s suited up and armed.” He angles his body away, a clear invitation to follow him. “I can lure him out, if you’d like.”

She hates herself for the interest that sparks in her, vicious and bloodthirsty. Taliesen draws a dagger from its sheath, glinting in the moonlight as he twirls it into the air, catching it by the blade with practiced finesse. He holds it out to her.

“It can be quick,” he continues, “or you can take your time. It will be you, me, and him. All I ask is,” he licks over his bottom lip, brief, “you vouch for me. To Zevran. Promise me this, and I will bring you Howe.”

The Warden knows she can’t trust him. What lies beyond those dark, threatening hedges is likely a trap, and she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Yet she imagines drawing the dagger through the meat of Howe’s throat, watching his pale face drain even paler, and to bleed him out into the grounds he stole. Either way, trap or not, if Howe wanted to face her, she would not disappoint him.

The Warden reaches out, and grips the hilt of the blade.


	5. chapter five

“Did you know,” the Warden asks slowly, “that Zevran has divulged your part in his past to me?”

Taliesen is a constant presence in front of her, assured in the path he’s taking her down. “I wasn’t aware he told you, no, but all’s the same to me.” As if he can sense her dubiousness, he chuckles, not even gracing her with a look. “So you know. Mayhaps that’s good for me. You could begin to understand why I’m so decided on reconciling my part in her death.” Finally, his eyes meet hers from over his shoulder. “Have you not killed someone who, possibly, did not deserve to die?”

She holds his gaze, steady, but she’s on edge. The leather hide in her hand creaks when she grips it, the dagger flashing as it catches the light from the moon in her shifting grip. “I thought you assassins were more of the mind that innocence is … subjective. That no one can truly be guiltless.”

His face lights up. “You really  _ are _ close with Zevran, aren’t you? Certainly, no one is truly innocent; not in the way you or I would define it.” He turns away. “But there are those who have paid the price for a crime they did not commit.” She thinks of Sten, and those farmers. “She may have been guilty,” Taliesen continues, “but not of the offense I accused her of.”

“So Zevran has told me.” The Warden has to wonder why he gave her the blade to begin with. He must know she doesn’t trust him, even in the face of him handing his knife to her. She wonders if Zevran would be furious if she drove it into Taliesen’s spine and ended this, but she holds herself still. 

“Of course he has. He must think he is the only Crow who’s ever known regret. He and I have more in common than he’d like to believe.” Taliesen takes her down another long, organic corridor, lined with trimmed shrubbery. In the distance, she can see the wild grasses he must have been talking about, deep purple and taller than herself. “Zevran is my friend.” A pause. “And more.”

“Was,” she corrects. “What is to happen between you next remains to be seen.”

Taliesen looks at her, sidelong, and inclines his head. “You are right.”

“Why me?” she probes. “Why seek me out, and not Zevran? Surely this proof would mean more to him than to myself. I’m not the one you have to convince.”

His face gets a little hard, and he looks away. “Aren’t you? It’s clear that your word means more than mine. At least for now. I can’t blame him; he took Rinna’s death … badly.”

The Warden taps the dagger against her thigh, one nervous tic she allows herself. “Her execution, you mean. Call it by its name, and perhaps your truth will matter more to him.”

Taliesen looks at her;  _ really _ looks at her, like he’s seeing her in a different light. “Maybe so.”

They complete their brief trek in silence, until they break into a clearing; the courtyard is lined with cobblestone, pale and blue in the moonlight, and a pavilion sits in the center, dark wood adorned with flowering ivy fills the air in a wafting sweetness; a strange juxtaposition to the goosebumps rising on her skin, the alert edge that has her eyes darting from end to end of the round yard. The grasses sway in the cool breeze ─ and she can tell they’re empty. There’s no body stashed inside them, no hidden assassin bound and trapped within the shifting ground cover.

“Where is he?” she asks, voice steely.

Taliesen turns to face her, and she recognizes that he doesn’t seem to take pleasure in what’s unfolding, though that doesn’t make up for the act. There’s a somber shadow cast over his expression, dark eyes holding her own.

“Where’s Howe?” she corrects.

“Just beyond the way, lying in wait for you,” Taliesen obliges her. “I’m sure you understand. It’s nothing personal, Warden, if that’s any consolation. Were you to die, I could take Zevran back to Antiva. We could come up with a story, and be done with this.”

The Warden clicks her tongue. “He would never go back with you, even if I lie dead.” She points the dagger at him. “All you’ve made me understand is that he was right about you. Whatever you had before … that’s over, and he’s all the better for it.”

His face goes hard. “Better? Or softer?” He unsheathes his other blade. “Rinna was a lesson to be learned. She didn’t do it, she did, it doesn’t matter. What matters is  _ survival. _ We do what we must, in order to persevere. Zevran understands that; why else would he have joined you? You held his life in your hands. He can never completely trust you, and never should you trust him. There are those who must die, and those who will endure. If you become the one who must die, then Zevran will not hesitate. It’s his nature.”

“I don’t believe that.” And she didn’t; she trusted Zevran, whole heartedly, and she believed he trusted her. “And right now, Taliesen,” she warns, dangerously, “you’re the one who must die.”

He doesn’t grace her with a response; in a blink, he’s in front of her, dagger poised to strike. She parries it, left arm bending in instinct as though she was holding her shield. He moves like a snake, easy and slinky, but he snaps forward with a prowess that has her on the backfoot, a viper striking to bite. She’s unsure if his blade is poisoned or not, but without her shield, she feels vulnerable, and she’s focused on the defensive. He’s fast and while her blows are stronger, his come quicker and with less room to breathe between. Each piston has her taking a step back, hurried in her footwork.

Like a hound herding its sheep, he leads her in an arc, circling the gazebo and then forcing her backwards towards the next hedge-lined pathway. When she thrusts her blade forward, he catches her around the elbow and strikes her wrist with the butt of his hilt. Reactively, her hand goes static, and the dagger clatters against the stone.

He wrenches her arm back, nearly sending her to her knees, and throws her down the pathway. She rolls to her feet again, and Taliesen stands in the entryway with both of his daggers back in his hands, blocking her path back to the salon. Pain pulses up her sword-arm in time with her heartbeat, and she inwardly chastises herself for not stowing away some sort of knife under her gown.

Taliesen doesn’t advance, however. He simply jerks his chin forward. “Howe waits for you,” he says, darkly, “down the way. He wants the honors, so our transaction ends here.”

She doesn’t look away from him, but she slides her foot along the ground, inching backwards. She can hear running water nearby, just down the short footpath. “So that’s what this all was, from the very beginning? An excuse to get me to come here, where he could slaughter me and tell Ferelden whatever he pleased? That I raided his estate, and he struck me down in self defense?”

“They told me you were the brains of the operation,” Taliesen mocks. “I’ll not answer any more questions. My charge here is done. I have to admit, it was … courageous of you to come with me, alone, but courage and stupidity are often the same beast.”

“You don’t understand who I am,” she threatens, low. “Howe dies tonight, and I’d imagine you’re next.” She rights herself, standing straight. “I wanted to trust you. For Zevran. And it’s only for Zevran that I won’t cut you down where you stand, once I’m done with Howe.” 

Taliesen looks absolutely delighted. Without another word, she strides down the path, until she emerges into another clearing, much larger and extravagant than the one before. The source of the running water is the elaborate fountain that sits in the center, and the lampposts at every corner are unlit.

The area is  _ filled _ with guards. When she scans the courtyard, brief, she counts at least ten men, maybe fifteen, and Howe stands at the center, arms crossed over his chest. She draws herself forward, shoulders squared, and faces him with a dignity that her mother would be proud of.

“Well, well,” Howe drawls. “Bryce’s little spitfire. I must say I’m surprised Eamon would condone you invading my castle. Is he losing faith in the persuasive powers of his Landsmeet?”

The Warden’s eyes narrow. “No need to be coy. It’s just you and me, after all, and your own personal army. If anyone’s faith was shaken, I’d argue it was yours. Not convinced Loghain can persuade Ferelden of his innocence? Or do you just want to tie up one last loose end?”

Howe scoffs. “This Landsmeet is a farce, and we all know it. For one who claims to be serving Ferelden, I find it awfully convenient you’d be willing to put this so-called Blight on pause, so that you might play at being highborn once again. The Couslands always were a haughty bunch, and here you are, no different: subjecting Ferelden to your spoiled whims.”

“It was Loghain who subjected Ferelden to this.” The Warden doesn’t falter, even though she knows it’s useless. Howe already knows the truth. “He abandoned the king at Ostagar in his bid for power. Is your own greed so deep that you care more about attaining land holdings than peace?”

“Curb your tongue,” Howe snaps. “Brave words, from the sole remaining warrior maiden of a disgraced family; yet here you stand, unarmed, and no family left to die to protect you.” Her jaw sets in fury. “The Couslands were always favored by fate; the teyrnir rightfully belongs to Amaranthine. Highever was just an outpost of the Howe’s, lest you forget that. Your freeholders always should have been mine. It is my right as a Howe. It should be the teynir of Amaranthine.”

“That was centuries ago, Howe! My family trusted you.”

“We deserved more.” Howe angles himself forward, looking at her through his sneer. “Your family opposed mine long ago, and this is simply retribution.”

The Warden tries not to be obvious in how she scans the court; there are too many men, and the return path is closed off to her. Archers line the back of the yard, and there’s a mage standing nearby, his staff gnarled and foreboding in his hand. The archers, however, do not have their arrows nocked. “Have you forgotten that your grandfather sided with the Orlesians?” she baits him, attempting to keep him talking. “Has  _ Loghain _ forgotten that? The Couslands always fought for Ferelden’s liberation. You cannot say the same for the Howes.” She needs a plan. There’s a guard to her left, close enough that she could reach him and his sword before any of the bowmen could loose an arrow ─ but there’s also a guard to her right, just as close, and he would move as quickly as the Warden would. Leliana must have noticed her absence by now. She just needs to stay alive until they find her.

But Howe is right there, right in front of her. This could be it; this could be the end of it, the retaliation she’s been seeking.

“A lapse in judgement, as the rest of the Howe’s  _ also _ fought for Ferelden,” Howe dismisses, but the Warden speaks over whatever inane justification he’s about to offer her.

“Did they?” she asks. “Or did  _ most _ of them fight in the rebellion? As I understand it, you suffered one massive defeat, and were laid up for the rest of the war, crying over your wounds. My father and Arl Bryland rejoined the Army of the South, but you did not. Was it jealousy, Howe, that impelled you to murder my family? You coveted our lands, our titles, our esteem. Did it drive you mad, thinking how it all should have been yours? Find comfort in knowing that, even as you struggle against me, even as you fight for your life, it will end as it always does: with you, weak and dying and pitiful, and a Cousland reigning victorious.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she’s diving for the guard. He catches her by the hair, crushing Alistair’s rose, but she’s drawn his sword before he can yank her far enough back; she drives it deep into his stomach, until he’s leaned over her. He gasps from beyond her shoulder, but the guard who stood on the other side of her grabs at her fur wrap and jerks her back. Blood pours out of his wound when the sword leaves the other watch, and she spins it in her hands and thrusts it backwards just beside her waist. It doesn’t catch on any flesh, and the sentry holding her knocks it aside with his shield. The guard in front of her collapses, Alistair’s rose mangled in his palm.

They struggle for a moment as the guard clutches at her wrist, holding her to him, and she wrenches herself this way and that in an attempt to free herself; all at once, the man holding her goes still, just as a wet squelch breaks from behind her. She whips her head back, and sees that an arrow has pierced his throat. His hand goes limp over her wrist, his other one pawing weakly at the puncture wound. Slowly, awkwardly, he takes a step forward, and then slumps to his knees and falls.

“What ─” Howe starts, and when the Warden twists to look behind her, Taliesen is mirroring her. Atop the palisade, only a handful of yards away, stands Zevran, bow drawn taut and arrow nocked in preparation. He’s in his own leathers again, dark and nearly invisible against the black of the sky, and the intensity of his aim is deadly when he lets another arrow fly. It connects with a different guard, right through the ocularium of his helmet, and Howe roars, “Kill her! Now!”

The Warden dives for a shield, narrowly missing the business end of Taliesen’s daggers. His blade slices through the hem of her dress, the skirt ripping soundly along her leg, but she manages to steal the dead guard’s shield and blocks an arrow that comes zipping through the air. Taliesen is upon her then, but Zevran’s own arrow knocks the dagger from his hand when he raises it. Howe’s bowmen take aim as well, and the Warden puts both her feet against Taliesen’s stomach and shoves, hard, just as Zevran is forced to abandon his position as the archers fire.

It’s madness after that; the Warden drags herself to her feet, bashing a guard backwards with her shield and immediately having to duck past a sword come flying at her. Low to the ground, she braces her legs and lunges towards Howe from underneath the guard’s arm. She sets her sword straight, prepared to drive it into Howe’s ribs, between the bone and into his heart. An arrow bounces off her shield, unable to deter her, but another sentinel collides into her, taking both of them to the ground. They roll a short distance, and she only just manages to wrench her shield in front of her as the guard stabs at her with a dagger. She blocks the rain of blows, but from where she lies, she can see Howe and a small entourage of his personal guard escaping through the gardens.

She shouts after him, one long, enraged cry. “Coward!” she screams at him. “I’m going to enjoy killing you!”

The guard grabs at the edge of her shield, and when he pries it forward, exposing her face, she’s shocked to discover Alistair is towering behind them, his own kite raised threateningly. It connects to the back of the guard’s skull with a crack, and the man goes tumbling over from the force of it. Alistair jerks the shield up again, just in time to deflect an arrow aimed at the two of them, and he offers her his arm. She grips it, hard, and he hauls her to her feet, pulling her towards him; the other guard stabs his sword into the earth, pinning the Warden’s gown to the spot, and she lurches from the force of it keeping her rooted.

He has a dagger in his other hand, and he swipes at her with it. The blade drags messily through the fabric of her skirts and along the meat of her thigh; the strangled noise she lets out makes Alistair frantic in how he tries to pull her towards him, and she grips the gown with both hands and tugs, hard, until it rips and she’s free. Following the momentum of it, she rears back, and then kicks the guard in the face with her uninjured leg, using as much force as she can muster. There’s a satisfying  _ snap _ , and he goes limp on the cobblestone floor. Alistair’s got an arm around her waist again, and he helps her limp her away.

She breathes heavy and hard as Alistair drags her along, his shield raised protectively as they run. She holds her own, by pure instinct, low to the floor to protect their legs, and they collapse behind the fountain to escape the bowmen’s line of sight.

“Howe!” the Warden yells. “Face me!”

Leliana is grappling with a sentry, as well, and the Warden watches as she slits her throat in one precise motion, fluidly beheading her. The skull hits the floor with a wet noise, rolling along the stone as Leliana charges at another man, dressed in her own armor once again. As she monitors Leliana, she rips a strip of her gown off, the fabric tearing easily, and winds it tight around the open wound just above her knee.

A little frantic, she searches for Zevran in the chaos as Alistair pulls himself to his feet to engage an incoming guard, and she sees him in the back of the courtyard. He and Taliesen are in single combat, daggers ringing out in tandem as steel meets steel, but the thump of a body tears her attention away. Alistair’s flicking his sword out, stained red with the blood of the guard he’s just executed.

The Warden sees her family shield strapped to his back, and she gasps out, “Maker’s breath, but I’m happy to see you.” She abandons the stolen shield attached to her arm, in favor of her own.

“Aren’t you always?” His own sword is drawn, but another one sits awkwardly and not quite right in his sheath; she can tell from the hilt that it’s the Cousland family sword, and she’s so overcome with relief and anger that she springs to her feet, grabs at his head, still masked in his helmet, and kisses approximately where his mouth would be.

She can feel the breath leave him in a rush through the slots in his helmet, warm and all at once against her mouth, before he’s tilting her aside with an arm around her waist in a quasi-dip, and checking another sword with the battered surface of his shield, forcing the attacker back. As he does, she draws her blade from his sheath. When he heaves her up again, back to her feet, she’s unclasped her shield from his plate, and she’s adorned with the Cousland family crest once again.

Zevran’s voice breaks through the sounds of combat, “We know how this ends, Taliesen!”

Alistair’s footwork is solid and unmoving as he duels the guard in front of him, and the Warden ducks out of his way, unwittingly into a fight of her own. An archer meets her, arrow pointed in between her eyes, point blank. Before she can loose it, the Warden overpowers her with her shield, one, two, three blows until she’s sprawled out and dazed on the stone floor. She rolls away from the Cousland blade’s point, drawing her own dagger and pouncing back to her feet.

Alistair slaughters his own foe, the Warden sees, but with his arm outstretched and sword plunged into the guard’s chest, his shoulder is left vulnerable; an arrow sticks him there, precise between the plate, and he jerks himself away, raising his massive shield defensively. He pitches backwards, then yanks it out from between the armor with a stream of red trailing from the arrow’s point.

“All right?” the Warden shouts over the sound of steel ringing against steel, mid-battle with the archer.

“All right!” he calls back. “I’ll go left!”

The Warden slices her blade through the sentry’s stomach, bisecting it. “I’ve got right!”

On an unspoken cue, they both charge out from behind the fountain towards the last remaining archers. Leliana’s there, crippling one of the guards with a blow to their leg, and the Warden finishes them with a powerful swing of her sword, separating head from neck. Leliana hardly pauses, fluidly onto the next one before the head even hits the floor.

With the aid of her companions, they make quick work of the remaining guards. When the last body has slumped, dead, the Warden, panicked, finds Zevran again. 

He and Taliesen move gracefully over the corpses littering the courtyard, and Zevran’s face has blood running down the length of it. Taliesen’s arm is coated in it, too, sticky and shiny under the moonlight, and each movement of his arm has splatters of blood flying to the floor. Zevran seems to have the advantage, and Taliesen moves back to accommodate the impact of Zevran’s daggers.

“You could come back,” Taliesen grunts out, between repels of Zevran’s blades, “we could explain it away! This is no life for you! You were one of the best. You could be again! Come back with me, Zevran!”

“I don’t want to go back,” Zevran shouts at him, “as I’ve already told you! You should have listened.” With one devastating strike, he knocks Taliesen’s dagger from his hand, and then drives his second blade through Taliesen’s stomach. The sound Taliesen makes is muted and choked, and his chin drops heavy on Zevran’s shoulder. They almost seem to be in a dance, arms outstretched and touching from where Zevran had disarmed Taliesen only moments prior, a tango over a blood soaked floor. “Now you pay for your mistake with your life, my friend.”

Slowly, Zevran kneels with Taliesen, until he’s leaning over his fellow Crow, and Taliesen’s second dagger falls from his limp fingers when his back hits the ground.

“You’ve gone soft,” Taliesen accuses him again, rasped, and despite it all, he doesn’t look angry.

Zevran’s eyes are fierce as he looks down at him. “No, Taliesen. I’ve simply gone loyal.”

The Crow’s breathing is wet and labored, lungs filling with blood, and then all at once he’s quiet. Zevran cleanly withdraws his dagger from Taliesen’s chest. A dark red stain is pooling around the body, and Zevran mops at his own face, a nasty looking cut along his temple and forehead, staining his skin even darker.

The Warden stumbles towards him, reaching a hand out in concern. Zevran wipes his blades along his leathers, grinning at her with the same charm he always wears, but there’s something solemn around the crinkles of his eyes. When he sheaths his daggers, he says, “And there it is.”

They turn their eyes to Taliesen’s corpse. Zevran takes a breath.

“Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows. They will assume that I am dead along with him. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

“For what it’s worth,” the Warden says, “I’m sorry.”

He clicks his tongue, waving his hand. “Nonsense. It had to be done. Taliesen was my friend, once, but that changed when he killed Rinna. When I chose not to stop him. Whatever I felt for him … is not what I feel now. Not that I don’t appreciate the intent behind your sympathies, but it was for the best ─ in fact, this is what I’ve hoped for, ever since you spared my life.” He gingerly prods at the cut on his head. “Not that I wanted Taliesen dead, necessarily, but now I have my freedom.”

The Warden hesitates. “True,” she says, at last, “you’re free now.” Zevran must hear something in her voice, because the look he gives her is patient, if not a little amused. She tries to find the words, without sounding whiny. “You know your oath was never ─ I never wanted to enforce it.”

“Are you cutting me loose?”

“No!” She puts a hand to her chest. “Maker’s breath. Don’t do that to me,” she says, over his laughter. “Well, I mean … in a way, yes. I suppose I am. This is coming out all wrong. What I mean to say is you’ve earned your freedom from the Crows, and were you of the mind to  _ exercise _ that freedom … I wouldn’t stop you. But I ─ I would hope that you would remain. With us.” She pauses to gauge his reaction, but he looks as cool as ever, even with blood smeared over his smarmy face. “I consider you a friend, Zevran, and more than that, you’re exceptional on the field. We could still ─  _ I _ could still use your skills, were you willing to lend them to me.”

“My skills are more important than my friendship?”

“No,” she says, miserably, “I just didn’t want to sound pathetic.”

He laughs again, hearty and honest and genuine. Carefully stepping over bodies, he approaches her and claps a hand hard against her shoulder, gripping the muscle there. “You have a way with words, my friend!” She shoots him a glare, and he takes it in stride, grinning. “You’re correct, however. I could go anywhere I pleased. If I wished, I could go somewhere far away, where the Crows would never find me.” She must look crestfallen, because his grin gets wider. “I think, however, that I could also stay here. Saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?”

The Warden doesn’t bother fighting the grin off her face, clutching at Zevran’s forearm in return. “One last great adventure,” she agrees. “A story to tell another day.”

He slides his arm away, until they’re linked by their hands, and he squeezes it in camaraderie. She gives him a nod, beaming, and he smiles back just as bright.

“Now,” he says, patting the back of her hand before he separates from her. “There’s still the matter of Howe.”

She sobers instantly. “I want him dead,” she gets out, through gritted teeth.

Leliana falls into place beside her. “As do I,” she says, “so we must hurry. He may try and escape back to the salon, and convince the patricians there that we’ve attacked him unprovoked.” She looks reluctantly at the Warden. “When you did not come back to the ballroom, I warned Arl Eamon that something may be awry. He may defend us, but I would not put it above Howe to act as though you tried to have him assassinated. Are you all right?”

The Warden clears her throat, nodding her assent. “Thanks to all of you, yes.” Sheepishly, she adjusts her sullied gown, stained with dirt and blood, and awkwardly touches up her hair. “I’m aware that following the assassin I was explicitly told not to trust was, perhaps, not my brightest idea. I apologize.”

“Really?” Alistair chimes in from behind, and he grabs her by the bicep and forcibly turns her to face him. “You think so? Or were you thinking at all? Because  _ I _ don’t think that  _ you _ were thinking.”

“I’m thinking you’re angry?” she tries.

“Yes, so I really don’t know why you’re smiling so big. Stop it! Stop smiling!” 

“You were worried about me,” she teases, and he pries his helmet off; he’s flushed and sweaty from the fight, and his brows are drawn low. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem genuinely upset, but there’s concern lining the edges of his mouth, his eyes.

“I was,” he confirms. “No armor, no weapons, no support. You could have gotten yourself killed. What were you thinking, really? Truly? If something happened to you, I swear on Andraste’s flaming sword, I would have killed you myself. You make me crazy.”

She reaches up and lays a hand, gentle, over his wounded shoulder. He hesitates, eyes searching her face. She works her fingers under the hard surface of his armor, touching the chainmail under it, wet and warm. Her fingers come away red when she withdraws. “My anger overcame me. I put vengeance over duty,” she admits. “I’m sorry, Alistair. You got hurt because I was careless, and selfish.”

All at once, the fight steams out of him, and he sags. “Ah, no, that’s fine ─ that’s nothing, it hardly even nicked me, really. It doesn’t even hurt. It’s mostly blood, I promise. No, no, no! Ah, please don’t make that face. Wait ─ are you doing this on purpose? You are, aren’t you? This is your way of squirming out of this.” He looks aghast. “Oh, I am  _ so _ onto you, you sneaky little ...”

“Howe’s waiting,” she says by way of answer, smiling sweetly, and she wipes his blood off on the material of her dress. “We shouldn’t keep him. Taliesen told me that Howe wanted to deal with me personally. I wouldn’t put it past him to try and regroup, or to try and condemn us to the salon before we have the chance to deal with him, but hopefully his pride is wounded, and he will want to end this at last. This way.” 

“This isn’t over,” Alistair threatens her, but he follows after, with Leliana and Zevran flanking him.

She leads them down the path Howe took; it appears to lead through the vegetable gardens, cordoned off and covered with wire to prevent animals from creeping in. She can’t see a clear route back to the castle, and there aren’t any back doors that she can make out in the dark. Hopefully, she thinks, that meant Howe retreated further into the gardens, rather than escaping into the estate. The dirt footway leads from the vegetable gardens into what seems to be an orchard, dark and teeming with trees and the encroaching smell of overripe fruit, fallen from the branches onto the garden floor.

The Warden shoots Alistair a grin from over her shoulder, answering his warning. “Of course. If it means anything, I really am sorry you were hurt. I’ll kiss it better later.” He shoves his helmet back on to disguise his crimson cheeks, and there’s a smear of her lip paint on the face of it, almost comical. Zevran points to his own cut, brows raised in expectation. She rolls her eyes. “In the meantime, Howe escaped with a small faction. If they’ve not grouped up with the rest of his men, it’ll be relatively simple to clear them out. I still want us on guard, however ─ these are his grounds, and he’s had time to set traps or ambushes. And we could very well be walking into one. Let’s try and be clever about this. Leliana, Zevran; any archers, I want you to take care of. I don’t want anyone sneaking up behind us. And keep your eye out for traps ─ I’d rather hate to ruin this gown any more than it already is. Alistair, you’re with me. Watch my back, but prioritize Howe. If he tries to run again, hunt him down.”

“With pleasure,” he answers.

“The dress is beyond saving,” Leliana pipes in, helpfully. “Just so you know.”

“Such a shame. Alas.” She keeps her blade drawn, and as they approach the orchard, she lowers her voice. “Then we’re clear,” the Warden says definitively, quietly. As they march down the path, she feels a violent thrill course up her spine. “Tonight, Howe dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should be saying stuff when i upload chapters but my head is empty!!   
> thanks if you've read this far!!! i'm just kinda skimming the doc & proofreading/editing, but the fic is done, so it'll be all online within the next couple days :3


	6. chapter six

The orchard couldn’t have been more than two small copses planted together, side by side; when the Warden looked into the thicket, she could see the massive wooden palisade at the very back, imposing and broad, signifying the border of the estate. The fruit trees’ yard must have only been seventy feet long, maybe half as wide, and it certainly wasn’t meant to produce enough for all of Denerim. As they enter the dark, the Warden wonders if it was a labor of love by a previous arl.

Even in the condensed wood, however, she can’t find Howe. She can’t find  _ anyone, _ really, and the rustling of her dress paired with the metallic shifting of Alistair’s plate made it unlikely that they’d hear anyone else. If there were men within the trees, though, they would most certainly hear the Warden’s little party, and she finds herself holding her breath as they sink in deeper; she almost hopes that Howe doubled back, made a run for the castle, but they would have either had to climb the shrubbery to get back, or run into the Warden’s cabal to backtrack over the pathways.

Only a few feet into the grove, an arrow bounces hard off of Alistair’s armor with a startling ring. He and the Warden promptly sink into defensive stances, an innate habit they’ve integrated through years of practice, and both kite shields whip up to deflect any other projectiles.

Zevran’s gone in a breath, slinked off into the throng of evenly spaced fruit trees, and he blends easily into the dark. The air is thick with the smell of sweet fruit ─ and then the same sugar caramelizing, burning. When the Warden looks up, she sees it: a pellet of flame materializing, then careening towards them, fast, and it sets the whole orchard aglow with its light.

“Fireball!” she shouts in warning, and Alistair yanks her into the trees as she says it. Leliana disperses just as quickly, and when the fire hits the dirt, it explodes into pools of white-hot flame. The impact of it sends gusts of wind blowing through the grove, and the Warden bars her arm over her eyes, squinting against the too bright blast. They’re only just out of its radius. 

There’s a man with a sword rushing towards them, weaving through the wood. In the trees on the opposite side of the orchard, she can see an archer, arrow nocked, but Zevran’s creeping up on them, his own blade raised. The flame dies out just as Zevran brings his dagger down, and the Warden blinks quick through the afterimage of the explosion, lingering in her eyes and blocking her vision. 

She and Alistair stumble deeper into the wood, and when her eyes clear up, she can see the entire area. The orchard’s alight with flame, and the crackling of splintering wood as it burns snaps out through the air like a whip.

“I’m getting boiled in here,” Alistair groans, crankily, but another arrow zips by their heads, landing dead-center in the tree they’re hiding behind. The Warden cringes away, suddenly acutely aware that she doesn’t have a helmet, and Alistair barrels off in the direction of the bowman. The fire isn’t spreading yet, but the borders of trees along the pathways are getting engulfed faster than the Warden is comfortable with. She searches Alistair out, finds him swooping out of the way of an arrow, and then shouldering the archer to the ground.

The Warden leaves him be; she trusts him to handle himself accordingly, and the man who had been encroaching on their position has already reached her. She meets his blade with her own, the steel sparking from the force of their swords clashing, and she puts all her weight into shoving him backwards.

“Assassin!” a voice cries out (one of Howe’s guards, the Warden imagines) and it’s followed by Zevran’s laughter, musical and wicked. 

The sentry she’s dueling strikes upward, nearly plunging his blade into her stomach, but she pitches backwards just in time ─ the point of his sword catches against her jaw, slicing through the skin there. She makes an angry noise through clenched teeth, threatening and loud, and slams into him with her shield. His sabaton catches on discarded fruit on the floor, so ripe that it’s squishy, and it melts under his weight. He slips on the slick mess, trying to catch his footing, and the Warden thrusts her blade into the vulnerable spot between his plate. She meets resistance, but she forces it deep, until the chain gives way to flesh, and they lurch forward together from the might of her blow.

She rips her family sword from his shoulder, watching as he clutches at the wound desperately, clumsily. There’s a lot of blood, too much, and they both know it. He hits the ground, the groan that escapes him burbled, and she doesn’t wait to see him die; she darts off again, following the sounds of fire and fighting to help her companions.

Alistair is dealing with two sentinels when she finds him, and she bolts to his side, taking one of the guards to the ground. She can feel the edge of the man’s sword bite into her calf as they roll, but she ignores the pain and instead sticks her own blade up along his chest, sinking it into the soft, vulnerable spot just underneath his helmet. Blood pours out like a burst keg of wine, and the sound his head makes when she pulls her sword out is grotesque. She can feel her own blood coating her legs, cooling and drying in the humid, open air, and she wishes she had her satchel ─ she had an excess of health poultices inside.

Alistair slices through his own enemy when she staggers over to him, and he catches her around the waist with his shield-arm, thumbing at the cut on her jaw and wiping the blood away. He asks her, “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” she says, “once Howe lies dead. Have you seen him?”

He shakes his head. “No, though I admit I’ve mostly been trying to survive. They set the trees on fire! I don’t know if I can ever eat an Antivan crab again, if this is how they feel.” She laughs despite herself, and leverages away from him. “Before you ask, no, I’ve never had Antivan crab, though I hear it’s very good ─ but at what cost?”

Her cheeks hurt from her smile, and she affectionately shakes her head at him. “Then I’ll only ask if you’re all right. Any injuries?”

“Nothing a kiss won’t cure,” he says, a little shyly, and even with the sound of warfare around them, the fire raging, despite both of them aching and bloody and dirty, she grins at him with sincerity. “Okay, no more smirking at me, please. It’s hot enough under all this armor as is, I don’t need you to make me blush. Let’s be off.”

She leads him back towards the main path, but they’re met halfway through the orchard by another guard; he swings his sword down at Alistair, hard, having rushed out from his hiding spot. “I’ve got this!” Alistair grunts out, holding the sword back with his shield. He shoves the sentry back, swiping out with his own blade; he’s parried, but he still says, “Go on then! Don’t worry about me!”

When the Warden emerges from the fire, standing squarely in the footpath, she sees Leliana execute an impressive death blow against another fleeing archer, her red hair bright and striking in the glow of the flame. Alistair’s guard bursts from the treeline, badly wounded and crippled, and Alistair follows after him dangerously, plunging his blade into the man’s back and twisting before he can escape. 

“Your men are dying, Howe!” the Warden calls out. “You’ve no one left to protect you. Face me!”

“Brave words,” Howe shouts back, from behind them, “when you’ve got a pack of wild dogs at your heels!” The Warden spins around, and Howe and three more guards, including the mage, stand at the entry of the orchard, illuminated by flame. “How fitting,” he sneers, “considering the Couslands are nothing more but dog-lords. You will burn, just like Highever.”

Enraged, the Warden shoots after them. Howe and his guard retreat down the path in a rush, and the Warden slips on blood and decaying fruit. She stumbles awkwardly until she manages to hasten to her feet again and breaks from the grove. She sees the group escape into the fountain quarter once more, and she races through the vegetable garden to catch up to them. She can hear Leliana call for her to wait, but her blood boils too hot for her to listen.

She skids into the clearing, sword bared and shield raised. Hidden behind the hedges closest to her, a guard’s leg kicks out her feet from under her, and she lands hard on the stone; she can feel a corpse’s wrist against her calf, and she yells in rage when she thrusts her sword up against the sentry bearing down on her. He deflects her sloppy blow easily, but he can’t catch the way she brings her knee up and kicks him in the stomach, hard, while his own sword is raised in preparation to skewer her.

He stumbles back, and she scrambles to her feet. The rest of her companions catch up to her, and Alistair rips the guard from in front of her, throwing him backwards to deal with the man himself. Leliana and Zevran both dart forward, graceful and lithe, each taking one guard on either side of the fountain.

Howe’s there, just at the back of the courtyard, partially obscured by the spout, but he doesn’t seem interested in joining the battle. The mage stands beside him, looking uncertainly from Howe to the Warden. When their eyes meet, Howe grins.

“You want to face me yourself?” he taunts her, voice raised to be heard over the sound of running water and combat. “Then face me,  _ pup!” _

Her father’s pet name cuts her cleaner and more savagely than any sword ever could, and, unthinking, she charges at Howe, roaring at him in her outrage. She makes it halfway there, and then there’s a burst of light from the mage’s staff. She tries to reel backwards, shield raised protectively, but her feet are rooted to the spot, and she whips her head back and forth to see what’s trapped her. Swaths of magic manifest and shoot upwards from the stone floor, and she instantly understands that the mage has caught her in a spell.

As soon as the magic is fully realized, it practically crushes her ─ a fitting name for the curse, and the Cousland family shield and sword are forced out of her hands by the force alone. The telekinetic compulsion squeezes her so closely that she’s on her tiptoes, back arched. She struggles to free herself as the bright magic squeezes her tighter and tighter, so unyielding that she fears she might snap in half. Her mouth feels wet, and she’s unsure if she bit her tongue or if the telekinetic compression is mangling her organs into pulp, but she knows it’s blood nonetheless.

Through pure wrath alone, she grits her teeth and forces her head forward, snarling, so she can face Howe;  _ now _ he’s drawn his weapons, when she’s helpless, but she can’t make herself call him a coward. Alistair is shouting her name from a place she can’t see, and Howe looks off towards his voice, and then starts running. She assumes Alistair is racing for her, too, and she clenches her fists, trying to force her way out of the spell by pure will alone.

Howe’s dagger comes flying at her just as a blast of energy sweeps through the area, cascades of dust gusting out from beneath Howe, the Warden, and Alistair. All at once, she’s falling to her knees, freed from imprisonment, and Howe’s blade is just a hair away from taking her eye out, and she feels the blade drag along her cheekbone as she falls. Alistair is practically tackling her in the same moment, and they bowl across the stones from the impact of him colliding into her. His palm is hot against her shoulder, and the air smells clear and static and unnatural; he dispelled the magic, she realizes, choking on the blood in the back of her throat. Every limb aches, but she compels herself to reach for her sword ─ it’s too far away, and her hands are shaking.

Alistair jerks his shield up just as Howe reaches them, and the thudding of Howe’s blades against the metal lights an urgent fire anew in the Warden’s stomach. Each blow is so powerful that Alistair’s shield lurches this way and that, and Alistair drops his own sword to try and reinforce his kite. She makes a grab for his blade as he struggles to keep his shield steady, just as Howe’s foot bangs forward, connecting to the front of Alistair’s helmet underneath the kite. There’s a  _ s _ ickening _ crack _ and Alistair gets launched away from her, where he goes limp against the floor, unmoving.

The Warden’s ready, however, and she doesn’t allow herself a moment to panic over Alistair. As soon as he’s propelled off of her, in no danger of her blade, she stabs his sword upwards, and she cleaves through Howe’s raised thigh like a knife through soft butter. The sound of agony he makes fuels something carnal and frenzied inside her, and she thunders out a war cry as she tears outward, freeing the blade from his muscle and drenching herself in his blood.

Howe staggers backwards, unable to put any weight on his ruined leg. The Warden gets to her feet, panting from exertion and rage. From the corner of her eye, she can see Leliana and Zevran killing the mage; Leliana drifts to one entryway, and Zevran bolts to the other as soon as the body hits the floor. Howe has no men, and now he has no escape.

The Warden is careful in how she places Alistair’s sword next to his shield. He lies a few feet away, and she can hear that he’s breathing, but the sound is wheezed and obstructed, slow and deep. She almost goes to him, but movement from Howe catches her attention again, and she clenches her teeth when she looks at him.

Howe’s trying to limp away, one arm clutching at his wrecked leg, the other holding his dagger out, trying to warn her off. She ignores him, just for a moment, to gather her family sword and shield from where she’d been trapped in the crushing prison. When she turns to face him again, she’s disciplined her face into icy composure for the last time that night, chin raised. Even dirty and covered in red, she retains the Cousland dignity her parents instilled in her all her life, and she’s adorned in her family crest.

The yard is littered with bodies. Blood soaks nearly every surface; even the fountain water runs red, where several guards have fallen into the basin. “Just as I thought. It ends as it always does,” she goads fiercely, “with you, shamed and defeated, and  _ I, _ victorious.”

“No,” Howe barks out, his own voice teeming with pain, “it doesn’t end like this,  _ dog. _ Even if you kill me here, I will haunt you for the rest of your miserable life. I’m victorious.  _ Me.” _

She licks her own blood from her mouth ─ or maybe it’s Howe’s, or both of theirs, she doesn’t know, but the copper taste of it coating her tongue is the same regardless. Despite their differences, despite what a beast he is, he bleeds red, just as she does. “Maybe so,” she concedes, “but I will be alive. The Cousland name will be restored. Your family will die, humiliated and disgraced for all your following generations. The legacy my father leaves behind, the legacy my mother leaves behind, is of a warrior who serves Ferelden, faithfully, truly. Your legacy will be destruction and ignominy.”

Her sword catches the light as she adjusts her grip, and something like fright sparks in his eyes in return. 

“No! The Couslands are traitors!” His voice is frantic, either with denial or fury, she isn’t sure. “Highever was  _ our _ land! Your people were people of Amaranthine! The teyrnir belonged to the Howes! It should have been  _ me!” _

She approaches him, slow, because she wants to savor the swirling battle on his face: rage, fear, panic, defeat, hysteria. He has nowhere to go, and he knows it. Even if he tried, he’d never be fast enough, and she’d hunt him down like a dog with a lame hind leg. She imagines biting into his throat and ripping it out with her teeth, as a true war hound would.

“It wasn’t you, Howe,” she says, because she finally can, and she wants to hurt him, “you never could have been the man my father was, you cowardly, selfish, cruel, stupid, two-faced bastard!”

The Warden doesn’t give him the chance to rebuke her, to even try and get one last barb in. She rushes him, and even with an injury as severe as his, he parries her sword with his dagger. It’s his one last resort, they both know it, and the Warden takes immense satisfaction in swinging her sword so hard that the dagger gets knocked from his fingers. It soars through the air, and Howe’s arm is spread wide from the impact. With one fluid motion, the Warden drives her sword through his undefended stomach, wrenching the blade in a tight, concise circle to make sure the wound is lethal. Their faces are close; his eyes are wide and her teeth are bared.

She rips the Cousland blade out violently, and he collapses first to his knees, then falls onto his side. His breathing is strained, trembling hands clutching at the wound, face pressed awkwardly into the stone. His skin grows paler and paler in a manner of seconds; he’s dying, fast. When he rolls onto his back, he rasps, “I deserved  _ more,” _ through the wet sound of him drowning in his own blood. The Warden stands over him, looking down at him like he was garbage beneath her feet, her ankles astride his shoulders. “Maker spit on you.”

“No,” she says viciously,  _ “I _ spit on  _ you, _ ” and she does.

Howe dies like that, with the last remaining Cousland towering over his body, the one he couldn’t kill. As she watches, she expects to feel empty. She’s heard stories of revenge that end with no victor; like Howe said, the tragedy haunts them, no matter the outcome. Truthfully, she wasn’t seeking absolution ─ all she sought was vengeance, justice, for the man who betrayed her family to die by her hand. She had it now, and she would have been content with just that.

As it is, however, the sight of life leaving Howe’s eyes feeds some dark, bloodthirsty facet inside of herself, fueled by rage and retribution, and the repulsive joy she feels while looking down at the dead man beneath her scares her ─ if only because she worries what her father would think. What her mother would think. If they would be ashamed of the cruelty she was capable of, or if they would approve of the daughter that hunted their slayer down.

But it doesn’t matter, and she knows it. She recalls the vision of her father in the Gauntlet, the way he’d calmly assured her that all her prayers and wishes would not bring him back, assured her that she  _ knew _ she could never get them back. She thinks of the kindness in his voice when he bid her to take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, let it go.  _ No more must you grieve, my girl. It is time. _

The hilt of her family sword groans anew under her white-knuckled grip, and she pours everything inside of her into one last furious yell, one last attempt to let go: all the pain, the grief, the guilt, the fury. And, despite her father’s words, she still prays and wishes that he will return, always, even though she knows it cannot be so.

The Warden screams at Howe’s corpse until she runs out of breath, choking off into a heartbroken gasp when she simply can’t go on anymore. She gulps air in watery pulls, and her knees are shaking with exhaustion and injury, but she sets herself straight and swings her leg away from Howe, turning instead to face the courtyard.

Alistair is sitting up, but the way he moves is dazed as he peels his helmet off. His face is covered in his own blood, eyes half-lidded, like he’s barely conscious. Leliana watches steadfast from where she stands, but there’s sympathy in every corner of her face, and the Warden swears her eyes look damp. When the Warden faces Zevran, she sees understanding there, something like pride; they both destroyed the ties of their past tonight, the Warden thinks. Now, they’re both free.

If only freedom hadn’t cost so much, for the both of them.

Gingerly, she drops her sword besides Howe’s body, bespattering the cascade of gore as it pools from his gruesome death wound. She leaves her blade there, soaking in her nemesis’ blood, and takes one wobbly step, two, three, until she’s falling to her knees beside Alistair. “I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, and her voice is raw, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he says thickly.

She does, though. “I shouldn’t have rushed in like that. I was so ─ so consumed by it, that you had to ─ you had to ─” 

Her eyes must be wet, because Alistair shushes her. “No, no. Don’t. I’m all right.” She cups his face, her hands grimy with ichor and dirt. “It’s all right. Don’t do that.” He grins at her, and there’s blood all over his teeth, all down his nose and mouth and chin. His eyes still crinkle and squint in the way she loves. “Am I still handsome?”

The question shocks a laugh out of her ─ and with it, a tear. Then two. Then they fall freely, hot and wet down her cheeks, and she nods her head stupidly in the affirmative all the while. Alistair’s thumb swipes under her eyes, soft. Weakly, she grabs at his shoulders, and she says, “I’m so sorry, Alistair.”

He shakes his head. She can see his nose isn’t broken, but the bridge of it is obscenely red, and not just from the blood. He’s going to be purple come morning, and she gently paws at his cheeks in a mix of resentment, regret, relief, joy. Alistair tuts softly, combing his stained hand through her disheveled hair and urging her face into his neck. She can feel his blood soaking into her hair from where he presses his mouth to the crown of her head.

The Warden clutches him and weeps, like a little girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always thought the human noble origin should have had a stronger scene with howe when they killed him!!! (insert mod where you kick his body)


	7. chapter seven

“Most of the guards that remain inside will surrender,” Leliana says, about half an hour later. The Warden’s seated on the rim of the fountain, and while she listens to Leliana, her eyes are fixed on Howe’s body. She rests her chin in the junction between thumb and forefinger, hands steepled over her mouth. “We’ve gathered enough evidence of Howe’s crimes that his duplicity against the Couslands will not be in question. Any surviving guards would be fools to fight for a disgraced, annihilated house. Arl Eamon will want as many bodies as possible for the army, as well, so for the time being … the fighting is over, I believe.” She stands in front of the Warden, looking tired and wounded like the rest of them, but she sounds optimistic. “The entire salon must have noticed your absence by now ─ Howe’s, too, of course. They will likely be talking already. We should address them as soon as we can. I’ll speak to the Arl about the dungeons as well, and we’ll likely clear them out tonight. I wonder if Oswyn is there.” She trails off, lost in thought, and then she fidgets with her thumb. “It’s going to be a  _ long _ night,” she warns them, but her tone is light and good humored. “We should return to the lounge now, to let Arl Eamon know what has … transpired.”

The Warden hums her approval, too exhausted to match Leliana’s enthusiasm. “Good,” she says, and her voice is rough even to her own ears, “that’s good. Have the Arl instruct his honor guard to keep the guests in the house while we escort them through the front door, would you please? If possible, I want to avoid anyone seeing …” She hesitates, dropping a hand to gesture to the gore littering the courtyard. “This.” Alistair is currently hauling the bodies into one section of the plaza, but it’s slow work.

“Of course,” Leliana says. 

Zevran appears from around the corner, saying, “The orchard is lost. Such a shame. I would have liked to try a cider made from those apples. Fortunately, there were no adjoining gardens, so the loss is not great. Just a handful of fruit trees and a lot of singed earth. The turnips, to my great sadness, remain untouched.” As he passes Alistair, Zevran whaps him hard over the injured shoulder in malicious friendliness, and Alistair yelps. He mad dogs Zevran, lunging at him without really lunging, and Zevran dances away, laughing. 

The bard tries to steer them back on track. “We were just talking of the salon.” Leliana’s voice is patient, like a mother dealing with her two unruly sons. “There’s much to address.”

“Ah, the salon! I wonder if they saw the fire,” Zevran says, sitting down beside the Warden heavily. “My new friend, the guard, has told me where the silver sits. It’s in a warehouse, nestled in the marketplace. Near the Wonders of Thedas, I believe he said. We’ll have our definitive proof of Howe’s robbery very soon, though that venture may wait until tomorrow.” He grins, a little weary around the edges but otherwise just as charming as ever.  _ “And _ he was kind enough to inform me it’s coming from the city treasury. Such a naughty man, Howe, embezzling from his own arling.” He gets to his feet. “Besides that, I’ll gather our evidence so we might present it all to your fellows tonight. No one in their right mind would dare defend the Howe name, and Loghain will look foolish for having ever allowed him into bed. Not literally.” A beat, and Zevran’s interest seems renewed, and the conspiring look he gives the Warden has her snickering, shaking her head. “Or maybe literally. Who’s to know? Suffice to say, that is not one coupling I find myself very interested in.”

“Nor I,” the Warden muses. She rubs at her chin, and dried blood flakes away as her fingernails dig through it. “Ah … I think, if it’s all right, I’ll take a moment to myself, out here. To clean myself up. Compose myself.” She feels embarrassed saying it, but Zevran and Leliana don’t look perturbed or inconvenienced.

Leliana steps forward, sliding her hand onto the Warden’s. “Of course, my friend,” she echoes. “Take your time. I will go in advance to, ah, prepare the Arl. This will be quite a tale!”

The Warden grins up at her. “And you tell them so well.”

She smiles, comfortingly, and then she withdraws. “I will see you soon,” she says, and she follows the pathway back to the estate.

Zevran’s hands swing clasped between his spread knees. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Truthfully? Relieved.” The Warden heaves out a breath, the air cool against her flushed skin in the late evening hours. “Good, even. I’m glad he’s dead, and I’m glad I killed him.”

“I know the feeling!” Zevran laughs delightedly. “It is how I feel about Taliesen. I did harbor friendship for him, at one point, friendship and more,” he admits, “but he made his allegiances clear, and he threatened not only myself, but the people I cared about. He changed ─ well. No. That’s not precisely true.  _ I _ changed.” He hesitates. “I know it’s … not the same.” He rubs at the back of his neck, a little awkward. “But I think I understand what you must be feeling, if only a small part of it.”

The Warden leans her shoulder against his, and he leans back. “I think you do, too,” she says. “We’re both free of our pasts, now.” A pause, and she laughs. “Well. You, a little more literally than myself. I wasn’t bought by the Crows.”

Zevran grins. “True enough. But now we may both move on from those binds that trapped us to our former lives.” She’s quiet as she absorbs his words; he’s right, of course, but she must admit to a certain degree of … grief. She will mourn being a Cousland. Carefully, Zevran stands himself up. “Right. There’s much to be done before we can call this evening a success!” 

“Where do you get all this energy?”

“You don’t want to know. Antivan secret.” He smiles at her, all teeth, and arches his brows smugly. “I shall see you inside, no?” He winks.

She smiles back, nodding her head, and watches him disappear through the hedges as well. Reluctantly, she turns to look into the murky water of the fountain, and there’s blood all down her chin from where she’d been choking it up. She scoops a handful of dirty water into her palm and scrubs at her face, until she's as satisfied as she can be with the state of herself. There’s blood all down her throat and her collar, still, but her dress is so tarnished that she would have looked filthy no matter what. She's really looking forward to a bath.  


The sound of Alistair grunting catches her attention moments later. He’d already splashed at his face with fountain water earlier, and it’s clean enough, but there’s a dark flush over the bridge of his nose and the inside of his cheeks from where Howe smashed his face in. Leliana had spare poultices, fortunately, and the smear of it is still shiny over the arch of Alistair’s face from where they’d spread it on.

He’s sweating again, struggling to lift guards just as heavy as himself, and the Warden forces herself to her feet to help. Alistair spares her a look when she approaches, but he doesn’t say anything when she grips the corpse’s legs and hoists him up. With the two of them, the work goes much quicker. Another handful of minutes, and most of the sentries are lined up in a far corner of the courtyard. 

As they move one of the guards, her battered rose falls from his fingers; it’s broken apart, and she knows that there’s no salvaging it. The petals are wilted and crushed, and the stem is snapped apart in multiple places. She falters, panting. If Alistair notices, he stays quiet, and they finish their task in companionable silence ─ well. They almost finish.

All that remains is Howe.

The Warden stares down at his body, drawing her forearm across her damp forehead, and she’s a little surprised by how much she still hates him, how much she hates looking at him. Maybe he was right, and he really would haunt her forever. The thought makes her sick.

Alistair’s hand is sudden and gentle in his claim for attention, a comforting pressure in the dip of her midriff, and she looks over her shoulder to meet his eyes.

“Come with me,” he says, soft.

And, well, who could resist _that?_ Smiling curiously up at him, the Warden lets him lead her away from the fountain yard. His arm stays wrapped around her, and he cradles his helmet in the other, balanced on his hip.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly as they walk. “About the rose. I  _ knew _ it was a mistake bringing it. The very first thing I thought was, oh, it’ll fall, someone will step on it …”

“So why’d you bring it?” he prompts.

She can feel her cheeks grow warm, pleasantly so, and she reaches up to tuck her hair behind an ear. “I was wearing Grey Warden colors, and I wanted to wear yours, too.”

Alistair looks at anything but her, even with his arm cupping her waist. “It was just a rose,” he says, but he sounds touched. “I’ll pick you another one. Or a dozen. As many roses as you want, even.”

“This one was special,” she argues, even as she leans into him.

“It was,” he concedes, and his hand drifts to her ribs, holding her against him, “but only because of whom I gifted it to.”

The sky is dark, but Ferelden’s twin moons have risen high in their hour, and they shine bright over Alistair and the Warden. The gardens almost look beautiful in the pale glow, in face of the carnage that occurred within their borders; the hedges are so deep green that they almost seem blue, and the air is crisp and clean once they’re away from the bodies. The pavilion where Taliesen accosted her stands dark and unwavering against the sun-bleached cobblestones and the muted glow of the stars. Sweet-smelling ivy grows around the deep colored wood, covered in pale blossoms. There's a bone deep solace that comes simply from being in Alistair's presence, and the quiet nature of their camaraderie is somehow enhanced in the moonlit, still park.  


“Are you all right?” he asks her, breaking the silence. She only notices he’s stopped walking when the warmth of his arm leaves her, and she ceases as soon as she misses it. Turning to face him, she watches him look back at her in earnest, seriously.

“I should be asking you that.” She approaches him and lays a palm over his warm cheek, feather-light so as not to irritate the bruising.

Alistair grins at her. “A kiss to make it better?” He tilts his face into her hand, and she can feel his breath against her wrist moments before his mouth is pressed to the meat of her palm. Her fingers twitch at the same time her heart skips a beat, and she giggles ─  _ giggles. _ Maker, she’s helpless in the wake of him.

“Normally that’s  _ supposed _ to work the other way ‘round,” she says, bordering on shy, and she bites at her lip to hide her smile. He brings his eyes back to hers, still grinning in that charming way of his when he's exceptionally pleased with himself, and she eases her thumb lightly across the arc of his nose, along his cheeks. “Poor thing.”

He laughs. “I’ve already told you! I’m fine. It looks worse than it is, trust me.”

“It does look pretty bad.”

“Fair enough. Your injuries are no sight better, though, in my defense.”

She looks down ─ he’s right, of course. Her gown is ripped to tatters, and the slips of her legs that are visible between the shreds are stained red with blood. The silver of the gown looks red and black, now, and she knows the fur of her cropped cloak must be matted and soaked in blood as well, if the grossed-out noise Alistair made when he helped strap her sword and shield against it was any indication. The Warden snorts. “I have seen better days, truly. Believe it or not, I used to be pretty as a painting, about ye high and whacking my father's guests in the back of the knees with my waster." Her grin goes a little wry. "The dignitaries would say, _Bryce, but you've a beautiful daughter; such a shame she behaves like a beast."_  


Alistair looks stricken for a moment, opening his mouth, then closing it. She wants to tell him that it feels good to think back on happier times, for once, but even the cheerful recollections make her mouth run dry with an odd mix of joy and grief, and she can’t bring herself to speak. Finally, Alistair seems to find the words, and he says with a pained sort of voice, “You’re beautiful.” He lets out a breath, like he’d yanked a knife out of his chest and he could breathe in relief as the pain ebbed. “Maker, I’ve been trying to tell you so all night.”

She doesn’t mean to, but she laughs, so sincerely that it’s a full-body sound, shoulders shaking with it. She has to move her hand from his face, lest she disturb his nose in her giggling. “You have  _ terrible _ timing!” She’s smiling so wide it hurts.

“I know,” he says miserably. “But I mean it. Even now, you’re beautiful. I just ─ wanted to tell you. Before the night is officially over, I suppose. You really ought to wear a gown more often. With less assassins next time, maybe.” He blows air out of his cheeks, which have gone pink. “Anyhow! That’s all I wanted to say. You, gown, beautiful.”

The Warden grins at him, stepping closer. “I’ve been waiting to hear that all night.”

Alistair cocks a brow. “Have you? Oh, go on. Don’t be greedy. You looked ravishing, and you  _ know _ it. You must have heard that a hundred times this evening alone.”

“Perhaps.” She bites the inside of her cheek to try and force herself to smile in a sexy and confident way, worthy of being called  _ ravishing _ , but she’s certain it’s big and stupid and dopey instead; she can’t control it, even with her best efforts put forth. “But it wasn’t from you.”

This time, it’s Alistair who steps closer, until his chestplate is pressed against her. “Does it mean something more, coming from me?”

“You know it does.” She studies his face, the blush on his cheeks, the dark hazel of his eyes, the subtle chap of his lips, then amends in a soft voice, “I want it to.”

Alistair shifts on his feet briefly, nervously. “It does,” he assures her, and he steps away. Then, carefully, he takes her hand. “My lady,” he says, putting on airs and sweeping into a low bow. “Might I have another dance? One not so rudely interrupted by assassins and murderers?”

When he rights himself, he pulls her along up the steps of the gazebo, guiding her into the enclosed circle of it. It’s wide enough to accommodate a waltz, and she knows her cheeks match his in color, her mouth matches his in smile. “There’s no music, ser!”

“Don’t ask me to sing. Really.” He pulls her to him, then slips his hand to her waist. “At the monastery, we were all expected to sing certain verses of the Chant. We’d take turns, doing one line after the other for every boy living there; because the Chant is so long, you know, it'd take ages to get through all of it. I guess they wanted to single us out so that we might prove our piety, or our devotion, or our passion for the musical arts, blah blah blah. After the first couple weeks of my living there, they stopped making me do it. They’d just move onto the next boy.” As he speaks, he leads her into a slow waltz.

“You sang badly on purpose,” she accuses him.

Alistair makes a faux-offended noise. “Only  _ sometimes, _ my lady.” She laughs, and the sound must please him, because his face goes soft, his smile indulgent, but as he gazes at her, it hardens into something else. “Seriously, though, you worried me tonight,” he says.

She turns her face away to avoid looking at him, intently studying one of the small flowers adorning the ivy’s vines instead, as though it were more interesting than the conversation. “I know. I’m sorry. I was so caught up in my anger that I ─ I only thought of myself. I didn’t consider the danger to myself, nor to the people I care about. I thought I was better than this, but ─” Her hand trails down his chest a couple inches, mostly because she wants to push away, ashamed.

He tilts her face back to him, thumb and forefingers holding her chin, before he slips it along her throat, cupping her nape to keep her looking at him. “I think anyone in your position would have reacted the same,” he tells her. “If it were me, for Duncan …” He trails off, but she understands the implication. “But  _ please _ , for my own health, promise me you won’t rush into danger by yourself again. At least let me rush in with you.” The Warden smiles at him, heartfelt, and he urges her head to his shoulder. She obliges happily, resting her cheek against the smooth, cool metal of his pauldron. “I’m glad you thought of yourself,” he says, and his voice is low and quiet. Even their dance has slowed, and they’re swaying together more than anything else. “You’re always thinking of everyone else; you found Wynne’s student, my sister, Leliana’s … whomever. You’re always finding closure for those around you, and I’m glad you’ve found it for yourself. Just promise me you won’t do it all alone.”

She hums, deep in her throat. “It wasn’t really all myself, if you think about it. You were just slower than I was.” He makes a mild noise of outrage. “Yes, yes. I promise. No more running into mage traps unless you're ready to destroy the magic.” He lets go of her hand, dropping both of his onto her hips instead as he makes a noise in the affirmative; in response, she lets hers rest on his chest, and they stay rooted to the spot, rocking together. It’s nice, she thinks, to simply take the moment to breathe, and even though she’s sore from head to toe, she’s happy. She could stay like this forever.

Alistair seems to disagree, because he bursts out with, “So!” He sounds too-casual in the way that always betrays how nervous he’s feeling, and the Warden graces him by keeping her head down. “All this time we’ve spent together, you know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the political espionage, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us … will you miss it, once it's over?”

The Warden chuckles thinking about it. Truthfully, the future seems so distant still, so indeterminate. If she could bear to be honest with herself, whatever the following months had in store seemed almost inconsequential to what her present currently held, rife with turmoil as it was: she didn’t want to move on from this. Not from Zevran, not from Leliana, not from Wynne, or Sten, or Morrigan. Not from Alistair. The only  _ certain _ thing the future held was change. It would be different. Being a Grey Warden would be different, and her role in the world would be different. Alistair would sit on the throne, a man burdened with responsibility, and she would go away, presumably to Weisshaupt, she imagined. Whatever happened, they would be different, and that was the security she would miss.

That was the crux of it, she supposed. That was her answer. She presses her face into Alistair’s shoulder, and clarifies, “Miss the constant battles? Or miss you?”

She can see Alistair swallow, hard, from the corner of her eye. “I know it might sound strange,” he says, hesitantly, “considering we haven’t known each other for very long, but I’ve come to … care for you. A great deal.” She knows, but hearing him say it out loud has her heart aching in her ribs, and she clenches her hands into fists against his chest. “I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know, or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” He hesitates. “Am I? Fooling myself?”

The Warden pulls away from him because she desperately wants to look at him, but his hold stays firm on her sides, keeping her near. Even in the face of his nerves, he looks at her resolutely, if not shyly; his cheeks are ruddy, but his eyes are intense and soft when they rove over her face, searching.

“Or,” he continues, slowly, “do you think you might ever … feel the same way about me?”

“I might,” she teases, if only because he makes fun of her just as often. Before he can pout, she amends, quiet, “I do. Really, Alistair, as though you even have to ask. You _must_ know that I adore ─”

She doesn’t get any other words out, because he hauls her towards him and kisses her soundly on the mouth. He’s pulled her so close that her feet have left the ground, and he has to tilt his head up to meet her lips, and she’s so thrilled that she doesn’t care that her shield is digging uncomfortably into her back, and she forgets that he’s swollen when she cups his face and kisses and kisses and kisses him until they’re breathless. If it hurts, he doesn’t make it known.

“So I’ve fooled you, did I,” he purrs against her lips, and she mouths sweetly at the curve of his smile between muted giggles. “Good to know!” As he says it, he spins her, and she laughs brightly and without restraint, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and his own locked securely over her waist. The sound of her laughter must delight him, because he lowers her to the ground a breath later, both of his large hands on her face as he bends his head and kisses her again, urging her to meet him.

The Warden learns, very quickly, that kissing Alistair is dangerous. He might not have the experience, but he’s eager and attentive and sweeter than anything, and she gets lost in the gentle weight of his hand against her jaw and her throat, the soft, wet press of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath when they part for just a moment. 

She only realizes she’s lost in it because, suddenly, they’re both startled back to reality when they hear the all too familiar sound of a throat clearing, and she’s instantly aware that Alistair has pressed her into one of the pavilion’s wooden supports, and he may or may not have a gloved hand against her bare thigh, under her skirts.

The two of them look guiltily towards the source of the intrusion. Arl Eamon stands near the main courtyard, arms crossed disapprovingly over his chest. He has a wry smirk on his face, however, and he seems smugly amused.

“I don’t suppose the two of you are eager to get back to the salon now?” he asks.

“Not particularly,” Alistair admits, but the words sound wheezed.  


Eamon levels him with a look, and Alistair promptly pulls his hands away from the Warden, holding them up in surrender. “I hope you realize how much work we’ve left to do before the evening ends. Your companions have told me what’s occurred, but I’d appreciate hearing it from the two of you, so that we might decide how to approach this … situation. It was  _ most _ unforeseeable.” He pauses. “You’re both a mess. Youth is truly an enviable trait. How you can manage to think of being intimate at a time like this, when you’re both so filthy, is truly a wonder of Thedas.”

“She tastes better than she looks,” Alistair says with a wicked grin and a cocked brow; the Warden is so delighted that she looks from Eamon to Alistair, mouth agape and smiling as wide as can be.

“Don’t encourage him, Warden.” Eamon rubs wearily at his temples while Alistair meets her enthusiasm with an exuberant grin of his own. “Now. If you’re done making me ill … Feel free to join us at your leisure.” He turns to walk back inside, but pauses to look over his shoulder at them. “That is to say, get inside as soon as possible, if you’d be so kind. We’ve much to do, and I imagine we’ll be doing it until the morning hours, at least.”

“Oh, I’ll say.” The Warden wags her eyebrows, and it’s Alistair’s turn to look awestruck, beaming at her like he’s never been more proud of anything in his entire life.

Eamon puts his face in his hand. “Maker preserve me,” he says under his breath, and he retreats from the unfortunate conversation to an environment he has more control in. The Warden and Alistair are in hysterics while he leaves, leaning against each other and shaking with laughter.

“You are a  _ bad _ man,” the Warden tells Alistair, between gulped breaths. “And a bad influence on me.”

Alistair’s forehead is warm against her own, his hands back to her waist and pulling her flush to him, making her arch her back in an attractive semi-circle. “You like it,” he accuses, warm against her mouth, and she tilts her chin up to swallow the words.

Her playful confession tastes like sugar in her mouth. “I do.” He kisses her wetly, hands sliding, exploratory, over the expanse of her side, her stomach. “My. Is that your sword, Alistair?”

“Now now. Don’t be crass on my account.” He laughs as he says it, nonetheless. “I wanted to ask,” he says, conversationally, punctuated by a kiss, “earlier, before all of this, when we were talking about my being a king,” and he kisses her again, “if you would consider,” another kiss, slower, a little more insistent, “staying in Denerim, for a time.” He leans back to look down at her, grinning in that boyish way he adopts when he’s particularly pleased, and his eyes are sparkling and bright. “When this is all over ─ the civil war, the Blight, everything. If I’m really gonna do this, I’d need, you know, someone with experience. Someone with a head for politics, as it were. A leader.” Her eyelashes flutter, and he says, “I’d need you. Would you, do you think? Stay for a time?”

The Warden would try and tease him, but she’s starstruck and swooning and kiss-swollen, so she can only drag him down against her again to slot their mouths together. She could have spent all night there, truly, just savoring the way he hummed into her mouth, the way his thumbs rubbed circles into her skin, the flush on his cheeks, but Eamon was right ─ there was work yet to be done. 

Reluctantly, she peppers kisses along the side of his mouth, his cheek, and then she says, “I would.” Alistair doesn’t seem eager to stop, though, because when she turns her face away, he simply bends his head to kiss at her throat instead. “Of course I would,” she says shakily, as his teeth scrape along the sensitive skin beneath her ear, along her jaw. “We should, um,” she tries, but he’s moving lower, like he can’t get enough of her, and his mouth is hot and reverent against the curves of her collarbone, avoiding the blood coating it. She makes a sound that’s half a strangled laugh, half a squeak, and she hauls him up by the hair; his eyes are dark and dazed, mouth parted just a little and wet from kissing her, and it takes more will than any task before it to say, “We should, uh, go inside. Now. To help.” Gently, she releases his mussed-up hair, sliding her hand down the side of his face, his neck.

“Ah, right.” He runs a hand through his hair to fix it, a little shy now that she wasn’t under his mouth. Carefully, he extracts himself from her, standing a polite distance away from her as though they hadn’t been all over each other just minutes ago. “Forgot all about that already. Hem-hem. All right, all right. Let’s get this over with, before Eamon sends out a search party. But I’m not gonna like it, I hope you know. I’m going to be despondent the whole time, and I might actually weep.”

She tries not to look miserable at the concept of what lay before them: interview after interview giving their accounts of the night, opening the floor to questions, no doubt, then a thorough explanation of each piece of evidence they found against Howe, then a sweep of the dungeons, then getting the prisoners settled somewhere safe for the night. The list seemed to go on and on. “As will I,” she says mournfully, descending down the stairs of the pavilion.

Alistair’s on her heels, and when he catches up to her, he offers her his hand. She takes it gratefully. “It’ll be more tolerable together,” he tells her, smiling, and the words are so simple and so heartfelt that she could cry, or throw herself at him, or kiss him again.

She contents herself with bringing their linked hands to her mouth, brushing his knuckles against her lips. He looks at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the world, affectionate and fond in the way he gives her his crooked smile, the way his thumb brushes over the back of her hand when she lowers them to their sides.

“Together,” the Warden agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a WRAP!!! i DO think i'd like to add an, ahem, explicit epilogue, so if i do, the rating will change! as for the main fic: that ends here, so if smut isn't your thing you won't have to worry about checking back!! thanks so much for reading ♥
> 
> OH!!! BTW!! i drew my own personal warden in what i was envisioning the dress to look like (i struggle describing clothes... something to work on in the future!) but if you're curious or more visual (like myself), here's a link! i have no idea how to work this site so sorry if it doesn't embed and you have to copy/paste.. LOL
> 
> https://tinyurl.com/y79zw2o4
> 
> i'm no picasso and it's a rough concept... (alistair voice) but... you know.... 😉


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